Fluffy Starr

Driving on Holy Gasoline

Blood on the Asphalt

I don't want to fan the flames of misdirected, post 9/11 white American paranoia, or anything, but there are plenty of Arabs and Arab-Americans working in and around the airport. A lot of them work in security, baggage handling, and drive taxis. We even had one Arab guy on our crew, Abdellah. But Abdellah, he didn't work out. But at least he went out with a bang. Abdellah was a rail-thin guy in his early 20's. He was twitchy and mouthy. He liked to rattle on endlessly, like a Goddamn teenage schoolgirl, stabbing the air with his finger while he made pithy observations on 'stuck-up chicks' and 'killer cars'. This was partly due to his impetuous nature, and partly due to a red-lining cocaine habit. Just like the rest of us, he wasn't just a driver- I'm a slumming writer (is there any other kind?), we've got a fireman, a piano player- extra-curricular activity abounds. Abdellah's other job was far more lucrative then any of ours, though. He owned a check cashing kiosk in Bell Square that serviced as a money laundering center for a bunch of low-level Arab coke dealers. He was never even there, because he had a sister and some cousins running the joint. All he did was the books. He drove to keep himself busy, I guess. He was a horrible driver with a phony license, and he had already been on what passed for 'probation' in our ragged-assed operation for totalling a couple of cars. In the first accident, he rode the wall in the tunnel connecting the airport with the city, shooting up a shower of sparks, giving the right side of the Stratus he was driving a nasty shave. It looked like a victim of terminal metal road rash when he was through. The second crash was a head-long collision right downtown. He tin-foiled the other car. He managed to walk away from it, but the woman he hit ended up in the hospital. Personally, I just think he liked to smash cars that weren't his. 

We had a load of Kia Sportages to get rid of. These are the worst cars imaginable, phony plastic jeeps that flip over in a high breeze. They were involved in too many accidents, so we were bringing them to auction to unload them on some other suckers. We left in a convoy of wheezing jeeps around 9AM on a cold, clear day. I was near the back of the line. I like it back there, because it means I have to pay even less attention than usual. I slept-drove through the morning, following a familiar set of wheels, watching the caravan of Sportages in front of me. Abdellah was first in the line of course, speeding in every possible sense, about a quarter mile ahead of the tight pack. I watched with amusement as he darted from lane to lane like an angry bee. Then I watched with horror as he took a left without looking, and a truck hit him at 80 miles an hour. For the few seconds that he sailed into the air it was almost beautiful, like a graceful ice skater acing a triple axis. And then the car plummeted to the ground like a big metal bird that got shot in the belly. By the time I got there, a dozen people were already on the case, calling ambulances and cops, screaming, crying, whatever they were up to. There wasn't really much for me to do, so I just kept going. 

He ended up spending a few months in the hospital - Hell, he might still be there for all I know. One of the lot managers went to visit him at one point, and she said he was covered in a body cast that looked like the punch line in some 'Married with Children' episode. Hopefully the coke money will cover the expenses. I remember a week after it happened, I was in the break room, where a bunch of the detailers- pc code for car washers- were discussing him. "Good thing he didn't have a bomb in the car", one of them said. What? "Bro, I don't think getting hit by a fuckin' truck is a terrorist act", I told him. "How do you know?" He countered. "Those guys love to blow themselves up." I sighed, heavily. "Abdellah wasn't on any Jihad. He was just a dumb fucking coke head that drove too fast." That would make a nice epitaph, don't you think? Anyway, if there's any lesson to this story- besides don't drive Sportages, no matter what- it's that just because a guy is loudmouth with a drug habit from the Middle East, it doesn't make him a terrorist. It does, however, make him a terrible motorist. If you want to round some people up and deport them, let's start with the goddamn bad drivers. 

The Road is Loud

The Fakes - demo
(www.thefakesrock.com) 
The Fakes have the same home-brewed devil neck trailer park appeal of the Supersuckers-thrilling pop hooks wrapped around hard charging rock and roll laced like a crazy girl's cigarette with shit kicker honky tonk, suicide blues, and high octane punk, only the Fakes up the ante with some well placed Motley Crue and Van Halen licks. If that gives you some wild ideas about raw fucking power and a distinctly sleazy take on alcohol burning, white trash heroic, fist fighting redneck n' roll, well then you are on deck with the Fakes. But they are not just Super rock, they're supersexy as well. Might be the flailing harmonica, which usually only gets treated this well by Jill Kurtz. Might be the sinister minister lust gospel of the vox, or it might be the snaky riffs, rolling around on the floor like rutting coyotes. For whatever reason, this record makes me as dizzy with lust as Shakira's. The only difference is that I don't necessarily want to fuck their singer, Nat Sharpe, although I will gladly take on his little sister in tribute, if he wants. This is only a demo, but it doesn't matter. Don't wait for the album, because these cats have half a dozen ex-wives trying to run them down in the liquor store parking lot all the time, so they might not even make it that far. Just go download these songs off of their site, and silently thank them next time you wake up in a different state then the one you started out in, or in the middle of a porno shoot, or whatever fool thing you end up getting mixed up in after getting thoroughly rocked by the Fakes. 

Pharoah Overlord - #1
(Ektro) ektro@verkkotieto.fi

It's all right, man. We need insane band names in these strange and perilous times. It's even fitting for these cats, as Pharoah Overlord invoke dust storms, glinting gold, and an endless blanket of burning desert sands, even without the Egyptian themed moniker. You could call "#1" an ambient stoner rock album, if it was your job to label such things, but it's more like a soundtrack then some dune buggy burning desert metal record. Not a soundtrack for some cut-throat, swashbuckling, blood on the sand Forty Thieves melodrama, but more for some Kurosawa styled epic, a rolling meditation on the quiet, sprawling solitude of the scream choking, blind-eyed vacuum of the long desert night. Right before the peyote buttons kick in, that is. The guitars chug along like metal warriors circling the wagons, locking and loading for some firestorm conflagration, and then they collapse on themselves, surrendering their arms to stretch like lazy lizards in the sun, mellow and humming. It's instrumental, of course. Words are hardly appropriate for such broad strokes of light and shimmering heat.

Demons of Dirt - Killer Engine
Hammerheart Records (www.demonsofdirt.net)

Demons of Dirt are operating under the theory that modern day 'riff rawk', the squiggly dope freak stuff pioneered by Fu Manchu and Kyuss and the 1200 bands that popped up afterwards and feed off of the originals like lamprey eels, is going the way of navel gazing, elephant bell wearing hippies with jazzy inclinations, and they want their groove back, brother. They're getting it, too, by any means necessary- in this case, a full frontal assault of high octane, bloodthirsty death n' roll. These Swedish hell stompers just do not let up on 'Killer Engine'. Riffs that might have been sun-dazed and spinning into the inky blackness of stoner space rock are ripped out by their roots and bludgeoned half to death in a flurry of post-Pantera fighting music. And the vocals are the rabid, snapping, tearing voice of pure outrage- teeth and foam and rock supremacy and the devil and the devil's Goddamn booze. Demons of Dirt ain't for amateurs, baby. Fans of manly rock, roar like tigers and tear at your breast, because you've got some heavy duty comrades here. 

Cherry Blossom Clinic - S/T
www.cherryblossomclinic.com
9 Times out of ten, you start talking to me about 'power pop', and I'll tell you to take that shit over to the guys in the striped shirts and 8th grade haircuts and leave me out of it, baby. But once in awhile- mostly when the band reminds me of Urge Overkill or Dramarama- then I am on deck. Cherry Blossom Clinic are one of those sweet centered few. Not quite as sex-bedeviled and rock star fried as Chicago power pop tyrants Kissinger, but certainly in the same rock arena- hooks made of candy, but sharp enough to poke the rockers in attendance in the ass, songs about girls sung by a sincere smart-ass, and guitars that start off in the valley of the Beatles, but shoot off into acid rocky-spaceland when they've got to. Hits? They're all hits, baby, that's the point. Who says Texas ain't got no heart? These cats wear theirs on their sleeve, and it looks good on 'em. 

Etoile Noire - Sleeping Black Eyes
www.etoilenoire.net
These Italian cats are a goth metal band, of that there's no doubt. The tell-tale darksider themes abound in the mood and the words and the dreamy, doomy atmosphere, with it's bat wings and skittering fire demons and the lingering dreams of pale white moon goddesses in flowing velvet robes. They've also got that distinctive stripped down death rock rattle and mournful ghost vocals, all the gloom god signatures. What you wouldn't expect amongst all the cobwebs and creeping shadows is a fuzz metal guitar that snakes around the corners of 'Sleeping Black Eyes' like a handlebar mustache on a grease monkey, and it drags Etoile Noire, blinking and disoriented, out of the dungeon and onto the desert sands. That's not to say that Noir are a stoner rock in the classic sense of the endless riff and the hairy motorcycle bitches, but it does bring them closer to the surface of planet rock than a lot of their tomb trolling brethren. Marred a bit by tinny production, but a few bucks and a shot or two of absinthe will fix that. For now, "Sleeping..." is a nice smattering of graveyard dust rock for nocturnal kicks.

The Silver Tongued Devil and I, Part 1: Leigh VS. Sleaze

"Oh. This is now, isn't it?" I call LA flash metal starlet Leigh Silver as scheduled- noon Los Angeles time on Saturday. She's groggy, just waking up, and she yawns loudly into the phone, for the first of many times. "Listen", I say, if you want to do this some other time..." "No, it's alright", she says, it's just that I'm still in bed. Sorry if I sound a little sleepy." No problem, I tell her. "No problem", she laughs, mimicking me for comic effect, "That's some accent you've got there."

I can already see how this interview looks in print. I can visualize some leather- clad hipster on the subway in New York City, reading this and snorting, turning to his girlfriend and saying, "You've got to read this. This chick has some fuckin' attitude." I want to tell Leigh to be nice, especially to the rock journalists, but you know, it's not my job to sell records or spin-doctor public images. She doesn't get any nicer- in fact, through the course of the hour or so that we talked, she put me on hold three times. Leigh might actually be the center of the universe, what do I know? But baby, I'm the one with the newspaper column. And I just can't see myself taking the 12-14 hours it takes to write one of these interviews for some marginally talented actress wannabe. If you want info on Leigh Silver, go to the Troubador in LA and rub shoulders with all the aging glam-holdouts. That'll be Leigh setting you up with Rum and Cokes. 

Part 2: Finally, Fluffy.

Leigh was a back-up anyway. I was really just waiting for Fluffy Starr to get back from whatever glittery planet she's from. OK, so it's really just dark and snowy Vancouver, but she dresses it up in flash and light like her own personal rock starress Christmas tree anyway. Whatever she was before she was Fluffy is no business of yours or mine, and all the records have been burned anyway. She claims a quiet life as a secretary, but that's all subterfuge. What does matter is that somewhere at the dawn of the decade, Fluffy decided to become a rock star. The best kind, the kind you fall in love with or worship like a hero(ine). She knew she could sing, could use her voice as a weapon or some crazy miracle, whichever she was in the mood for, but she needed a wall of sound to wrap around it like pink fur studded with skulls. So she went a head and built the Goddamn wall herself, one digital brick at a time. Using a myriad of musical influences- the slink of Garbage, the electro-thrash of Nine Inch Nails, the glam-pop of Duran Duran- you get the idea, industrialized sex rock- she forged a uniquely lustful, soulful kind of industro power pop that's equal parts Blade Runner, Sigue Sigue Sputnik and decadent Hollywood glamour. As her pet project rapidly turned into a ravenous beast, she decided to recruit a couple of like minded souls into her Fluffy revolution. The singularly named Paule and Jim joined the velvet gang, provided further programming, synths, and sex robots. Circuit boards were spot welded, plugs met sockets and found a perfect fit, and confetti cannons exploded, just because they could. And now, as the world churns and burns, the band is ready to unleash the perfect prescription for these dark days- a debut album that will paint the ears and the minds of everyone it touches a glossy purple metal flake, until the whole planet looks and sounds as fabulous as Fluffy does. Sadly, I didn't get to actually speak to Fluffy, as she's currently in the process of building her very own studio/rehearsal space/palace- The House of Fluffy, of course. Expect bubbling champagne fountains and pink shag carpeting. She did, however, take the time to answer my questions electronically. Which means I still don't know if Fluffy is real, or just some Starry figment of my over-zealous imagination. You better check out her website just to make sure.


Do you remember the exact day and moment that you became Fluffy Starr?

No. I mean, I think I was this somewhat eccentric Fluffy Starr character all my life. I used hang out in my room like some recluse, and draw pictures and write stories and play the electric guitar and sing songs, instead of hanging around outside of 7/11 like the other kids my age. I sort of just did my own thing for as long as I can remember. I don't think I was ever not Fluffy Starr.

What were you doing right before becoming Fluffy?

Before (Fluffy Starr) music, I was a secretary. I was an Executive Assistant. That was my actual title. Can you believe that? It wasn't my thing, and I was really bad at it. Before that, I was a makeup artist. I loved deconstructing and reconstructing the human face, and making everybody beautiful. Why I went from that to being a secretary, I still haven't figured out.

Were you a performer type in high school? Like in chorus, or something? Or did you have your own band then, too?

No way, in school I never had the guts to sing or play an instrument in front of anyone! Even though I wanted to. I was very self- conscious. But in my own mind I was a secret rock star. I kept to myself mostly, but always had wild hair and wore eccentric makeup and clothes. I was called a "freak", so that cut down the chances of me performing even more so. Although I used to come home from school and sing to Madonna records. Hell, I still do that. Only now, I'm not sorry for being a "freak".

Were you nice to the other students, even though you were cooler than they were?

I was nice to everyone. Still am.

Did you go to the prom, or were you too cool for that?

Love a duck! Hell, no! I did not go. Not because I was too cool. But because no one ever asked me to things like that.

How did you find the rest of the band?

They found me, I think. Well, I knew them all from before, and I did music with them, but more on a casual basis. But then everyone else's life got in the way, so I continued on my own. I learned how to sing, play the synth, drum, produce and engineer and program. I felt I had no choice. I wasn't going to wait around for anyone. I was totally headstrong and totally serious. I started to see some success, like on my MP3.com page (mp3.com/fluffystarr). Then they came back to me. Little scoundrels!

Why did you opt for boys, as opposed to making Fluffy Starr fully girl powered?

I didn't really opt for anything in particular. They're the only ones who wanted to work with me. And I got lucky, because they didn't suck. But maybe I'll kick their asses out if they piss me off, then replace them with drag queens. How's that? 

Do you have to tell those guys how to dress, or did they show up styling?

Oh, I dress them. I lay out their clothes neatly on their beds. I make sure their socks match with their underwear. Because you never know when they'll try to make a horrific mix of stripes and argyle. 

Who's the coolest guy in the band?

If I was a guy, I'd say me. Either way, I'm still the coolest guy in the band. Yeah.

Who's the weirdest?

I think we would all point a finger to each other on this one. But definitely Jim (guitars). He's on ten all the time. All the time. Always in a terrible rush. He's stuck on high speed mode or something. He's not even aware of it either. His cell phone vibrates when someone calls and he jumps ten feet. He's fun to startle. But Paule (keyboards) is not exactly normal either. He waits for an hour before he answers a question. His eyes sort of go blank, and you're not sure if he heard you or not. But after a very long pause, he might answer. Bugs the hell out of me. They are both totally and completely nuts! I don't know why I put up with them.

Is the album gonna be a concept album?

No, not in the usual sense. The only concept is for ourselves. By that, I mean that we make the kind of music we ourselves want to hear. That was the only rule. We never thought about the radio or anything like that. I personally don't think the world can take another cloned pop act.

Eventually, will there be, say, a Fluffy Starr clothing line?

Yes! I want there to be! Will you be a model in my catalogue? (If you're looking for the aging rockn'roll burnout look, than yeah, baby, I'm your man.)

What would it look like?

Oh, Ken... What an excellent question. In the Fluffy Starr clothing line there will clothes that look like they're from science fiction movies, with their asymmetrical cuts, extra long sleeves and muted colors. Lots of unusual man-made fabrics. Totally buttoned down and zipped up. Very sleek and slick.

How about a comic book?

I think I'd like that very much actually.

What would your superpowers be?

My super power would be the ability to give the "evil eye". I'd give the villains the look and they're minds will be miraculously changed to whatever I want. Oooh, how devilish... It will be a slightly naughty comic book.

If they had to make the Fluffy Starr movie now, who would you pick to play you?

Oh my God... Who shall I say? You know which actress I like? But I don't know where she is these days... Juliette Lewis. Remember her? She was in Natural Born Killers, Kalifornia, Strange Days and some other weird movies. I would pick her. There is something tragic yet honest about her. She's a real actress. She's not worried about what she looks like, or how cool she'll come off to the viewers. I think she's very underrated. I really like her.

Would it have a happy ending?

Of course! I would end up being Queen of the Universe, and I'd order everyone to share everything with each other so that everyone can be healthy and happy. Then I'd be happy.

Do you still have a day job, or are you Fluffy full time now?

I get to menace this planet's citizens full time as Fluffy Starr now.

Who are the Fluffy fans?

Fluffy Starr fans consist of every kind of person you can think of. Every age. Every country. Even people who can barely speak English write to me. It's really quite amazing. I absolutely love it though.

Any weird fan stories? Stalkers?

Well, sometimes I get weird emails from my MP3.com site, where just anyone can email you from a form thingy on there. And some of these guys are either asking me to marry them or asking to spank me. I think they need to spank themselves...

What about gigs? good, bad? Especially bad?

Why do you want to know about the bad? I guess it sells more stuff, huh? (Yep.) But we did this one kind of fancy-dancy Christmas party where we played a few of our songs, and Paule hit this one really low note on the synth and the power went out with an ominous bwowww sound. Everything went dark. Then no one knew where the circuit breaker panel thingy was. So everyone was in the dark for about half an hour because of us. We found it funny, but I'm not sure if the hosts did at the time. But lucky for us, they were really cool about it, and let us continue. 

Is it easier or harder to be a girl in rock and roll?

I'm not sure... But in general, when I started becoming serious about music, no one wanted to touch me with a ten foot pole. I think that because I'm a girl, no one really took me seriously. Like I was only going through a phase that I would soon outgrow. But these guys (Jim and Paule) had the foresight (or insanity) to work with me, and helped to make my vision a reality. And we're still in the process. I hope it works!

What is Fluffy Starr's message to the people?

I don't really know if we have an official message as a band. I think it is: "Be yourself." From me personally, the message would be: "You have a brain. Use it." Why I say that is because using only your body, or looks, or pulling cheap tricks out of a hat is getting old now. This is a new, more cerebral time. An exciting time. More high tech. People in general are getting smarter. The music should reflect it.

And finally, what's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?

Aww... this is a hard question. I didn't expect you to spring one of these on me! You are messing me up! Last question of the interview... This one is supposed to be really good. Meaningful, and stuff. You know what? I've never really been very good at this kind of thing. For a girl, I'm not very romantic or sentimental, even though I like to think I am sometimes. But let me think... Okay, I will say that when 9/11 happened, I was very shaken up. But when I saw how people were helping each other - perfect strangers, I was surprised. It made me a less skeptical human being. So out of something very bad, many good things came (to me and to the world). I think that's extremely beautiful. Don't you? www.mp3.com/fluffystarr

Indeed I do, sister.

Trust me on this one. Fluffy is every kind of all right.

Next Time: Industro-metal priestess Charlie Drown.

I am the one baby, that's for sure. - Sleazegrinder 03.02