The Frogs/Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones, The Skinny, Portland, ME (March 27)

There's a great Byrds song from the late 60s, "Bad Night at the Whiskey," which, one presumes, was about just that. Well, the other night at the Skinny was like that too?it's nights like this that remind me Portland at its core is full of angry redneck bastards. Considering the Frogs, the headliners, more or less amount to a gay cabaret act, one wouldn't expect their gigs to be crowded by knuckle-baring cowpokes, but there was a weird vibe to the whole night?it had that Altamont vibe, as Frog Dennis Flemion noted from the stage. Ugliness pervaded every corner. I saw a lot of pissed-off people this night.

As the preeminent roadhouse in the city, the Skinny is the proverbial Longhorn Ballroom?they play host to any shaggy, unholy act passing through this cold, hard town like blood passing through an aqueduct. The folks who run this nightstand are fine ones indeed?it's a family affair, and co-owners Johnny and Mello Lomba are ever-present in the day-to-day operations of the joint. There's a reason they call it the Skinny?its proprietors really are skinny (which in Portland is rare?people up here are generally well-fed). The reason they're skinny is that they're always running around?stacking chairs, filling ice buckets, fixing the lights, pounding hammers. Fat doesn't have time to settle on their narrow bones.

But Mrs. L was not happy at the Frogs show?I don't think I saw her smile once, a bummer because her ebullience is usually a big part of the whole Skinny experience. Everyone has his off night, and you gotta remember, running a rock club in the day and age of pussy-assed Eminem-rap-DJ crap is no picnic. The Lombas can't just shrug it off and forget about it; they have to constantly worry about staying afloat. At the Frogs show, Mrs. L was bummed out about the smoke?true, when you get the rednecks out, the air is so thick?from seegars and whatnot?that it's like a mud mask. The next day, Johnny Lomba was installing a "smoke sucker" that would sweep those noxious fumes ceiling-ward and away from the patrons. Most of whom are probably oblivious anyway.

Johnny Lomba was his usual even-tempered self, but he was the only one who didn't seem to be on a serious down that night. Chris Barry, another writer who lives up here, was feeling the strain of a long day's drunk and waiting for those silly Frogs to come on?treated to Texas Terri, the opening act, he was not salved. Terri's a Wendy O. Williams clone whose band the Stiff Ones do a really revved-up Plasmatics/Stooges/late-70s punk type of pound, not bad in its own way but not all that distinct. I say God bless 'em?the world needs more Wendy O. Williams. Two Stooges covers?"Shake Appeal" handled much better than "Down on the Street" (which is probably too subliminal for these simple fucks).

During intermission I spot members of Portland's premier punk aggregations: Big Meat Hammer, Swamp Witch Revival, the Marvels, etc. I wonder if they'll stick around for the Frogs' flamboyance. Some tall kid tells his friend that Bebe Buell was just onstage. "That's not Bebe," I say, thinking he's talking about Texas Terri. Later on, I found out Bebe had actually jumped onstage during the Stiff Ones' final number. Guess I was snortin' crank in the bathroom.

By the time the Frogs come out there's considerable tension. For those who've never seen them, they're quite a spectacle. Two brothers, both in their 40s?one of them, Jimmy, looks 6-7 with his fairy wings. The other, Dennis, in blackface. Dennis plays drums, Jimmy sings and plays guitar. They're joined by a bass player named Beezer. Their attack as a performing unit is much more Velvets-oriented than on their latest album, Hopscotch Lollipop Sunday Surprise, where the use of overdubs makes possible a lot more ornate textures. (Result? Tony Visconti circa 1971.) I wonder how this heavily hairy-chested redneck crowd is gonna go for these slimy-skinned troubadours.

About 20 minutes into the set, someone up front gets slugged. Then the Frogs start mouthing off from the stage, turning it into a gay-rights issue, when what they don't understand is it's just another night out for the local beer-pouring bruisers. The offending scalawag is shown the exit by ample doorman Dice and the show continues, but just to make a statement about it the Frogs start their whole set over. Meanwhile, the girlfriend of the guy who got punched is telling me how badly these Frogs suck. But the Frogs represent something truly inspiring in a way?the last vestige of a genuine iconoclasm whereby all expectations are met and subsequently fucked with. It's too much for the yokels to bear. I wonder if they smashed the windows of the Frogs' van?