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Authors: Megan McCafferty
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Pineville culture.
"I dare you to find a better freak show for a five-dollar admission," I said.
"Girl, I’m from the city, where the freak shows are free," she said.
"Wait and see."
At the end of the night, Hy agreed with me. Neither one of us could understand what compelled these people to willingly humiliate themselves in front of their peers.
I’ll give you a brief review.
The show opened with a band rather narcissistically named The Len Levy Four. It was fronted by none other than Len Levy, the boy who broke my eight-year-old heart. He wore about six inches of pancake makeup, as though the audience would be tricked into thinking that somehow the spotlight, or perhaps the very aura of rap/metal greatness itself, had erased the purple lesions from his face. I say this with all bitterness aside, of course.
So The Len Levy Four launched into a Rage Against the Machine rip-off song. I have to admit that the band itself was pretty tight. But Len was frightening. He’s pretty stiff and robotic in everyday life. Well, jack that up on crack and you’ve got Len’s idea of stage presence. PHS’s answer to Zack de la Rocha marched around his cohorts like a short-circuited cyborg, so fast that the spotlight couldn’t keep up with him.
Len wasn’t even halfway through the first verse when he yelled, "Pineville!" and attempted a stage dive. Talk about premature ejaculation. Everyone was still sitting in their seats. There wasn’t anyone to catch him. He landed right on his feet and just kind of stood there, stunned that he was on the ground instead of surfing the crowd.
So then he went the audience-participation route.
"Pineville!" he yelled into the microphone.
Then he held it out for the audience to respond in kind. Silence.
"Pineville!"he yelled even louder.
This time he was met with howling laughter. The song ended not long thereafter with Len Levy throwing down the mike with a deafening squeal of feedback and storming out of the auditorium.
Rock and roll.
Next up was Dori Sipowitz, a die-hard Britney Spears fan if there ever was one. Much like the genuine Lolita diva, Dori’s act was heavy on the choreography and light on the singing, relying on prerecorded vocals and lip-synching. Dori’s mother was sitting right in front of us and screamed, "Sexy, baby! Sexy, sexy, sexy!" as her daughter writhed and gyrated in a pink, sequined catsuit with a belly-baring cutout.
I don’t even need to tell you how completely sick and inappropriate that is.
She was followed by a trio of Hoochie hip-hop dancers who should’ve known better than to wear white spandex. (They put the "boom" inboom-shaka-laka-shaka-laka-shaka-laka. ) A posse of Wiggaz rapped aboutda thug life outfitted in the bangingest, bling-blingingest ghetto superstar gear available at the Ocean County Mall. There was also a juggler and a Grateful Dead cover band named Long Strange Trip.
There were a few more acts but I’ve blocked them out. No emotion is more squirmy than feeling embarrassed for someone else.
The final act was Percy Floyd, a Double-A Elvis impersonator. After thirty seconds of anticipation-building Vegas-style vamping and spotlight swirling, The Black Elvis took the stage like a tornado. Like all Elvis impersonators worth their Quaaludes and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, he chose to give homage to the jelly-bellied, sideburned, rhinestone-jumpsuited Elvis, the one who sadly lost the vote for the commemorative stamp.
The audience went nuts.
I was laughing and clapping and cheering along with the rest of the audience as The Black Elvis crooned his way through "Suspicious Minds." It was only when he whipped off his huge tinted sunglasses to wipe his brow with a red scarf that I discovered the shocking identity of The Black Elvis. I nearly fainted in the aisle—which would’ve been a nice dramatic touch.
"Holy shit!" I screamed. "I
"I dare you to find a better freak show for a five-dollar admission," I said.
"Girl, I’m from the city, where the freak shows are free," she said.
"Wait and see."
At the end of the night, Hy agreed with me. Neither one of us could understand what compelled these people to willingly humiliate themselves in front of their peers.
I’ll give you a brief review.
The show opened with a band rather narcissistically named The Len Levy Four. It was fronted by none other than Len Levy, the boy who broke my eight-year-old heart. He wore about six inches of pancake makeup, as though the audience would be tricked into thinking that somehow the spotlight, or perhaps the very aura of rap/metal greatness itself, had erased the purple lesions from his face. I say this with all bitterness aside, of course.
So The Len Levy Four launched into a Rage Against the Machine rip-off song. I have to admit that the band itself was pretty tight. But Len was frightening. He’s pretty stiff and robotic in everyday life. Well, jack that up on crack and you’ve got Len’s idea of stage presence. PHS’s answer to Zack de la Rocha marched around his cohorts like a short-circuited cyborg, so fast that the spotlight couldn’t keep up with him.
Len wasn’t even halfway through the first verse when he yelled, "Pineville!" and attempted a stage dive. Talk about premature ejaculation. Everyone was still sitting in their seats. There wasn’t anyone to catch him. He landed right on his feet and just kind of stood there, stunned that he was on the ground instead of surfing the crowd.
So then he went the audience-participation route.
"Pineville!" he yelled into the microphone.
Then he held it out for the audience to respond in kind. Silence.
"Pineville!"he yelled even louder.
This time he was met with howling laughter. The song ended not long thereafter with Len Levy throwing down the mike with a deafening squeal of feedback and storming out of the auditorium.
Rock and roll.
Next up was Dori Sipowitz, a die-hard Britney Spears fan if there ever was one. Much like the genuine Lolita diva, Dori’s act was heavy on the choreography and light on the singing, relying on prerecorded vocals and lip-synching. Dori’s mother was sitting right in front of us and screamed, "Sexy, baby! Sexy, sexy, sexy!" as her daughter writhed and gyrated in a pink, sequined catsuit with a belly-baring cutout.
I don’t even need to tell you how completely sick and inappropriate that is.
She was followed by a trio of Hoochie hip-hop dancers who should’ve known better than to wear white spandex. (They put the "boom" inboom-shaka-laka-shaka-laka-shaka-laka. ) A posse of Wiggaz rapped aboutda thug life outfitted in the bangingest, bling-blingingest ghetto superstar gear available at the Ocean County Mall. There was also a juggler and a Grateful Dead cover band named Long Strange Trip.
There were a few more acts but I’ve blocked them out. No emotion is more squirmy than feeling embarrassed for someone else.
The final act was Percy Floyd, a Double-A Elvis impersonator. After thirty seconds of anticipation-building Vegas-style vamping and spotlight swirling, The Black Elvis took the stage like a tornado. Like all Elvis impersonators worth their Quaaludes and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, he chose to give homage to the jelly-bellied, sideburned, rhinestone-jumpsuited Elvis, the one who sadly lost the vote for the commemorative stamp.
The audience went nuts.
I was laughing and clapping and cheering along with the rest of the audience as The Black Elvis crooned his way through "Suspicious Minds." It was only when he whipped off his huge tinted sunglasses to wipe his brow with a red scarf that I discovered the shocking identity of The Black Elvis. I nearly fainted in the aisle—which would’ve been a nice dramatic touch.
"Holy shit!" I screamed. "I
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