Culture vulture

Photo By Francine Nasaruddin

Springing into action
Sure, it’s not officially spring yet. But the lark is on the wing, the snail on his thorn, pollen fills the air, and all is bright with the bursting of blossoms and the buzzing of bees. As if that weren’t evidence enough that the season has turned, while walking our dogs, Sam and Stella, through One-Mile on Saturday afternoon the lovely I. Daphne St. Brie and self spotted a genuine and undeniable harbinger of spring—the first sunbather of the season. Set up on a towel in a fashionably abbreviated bikini and reading a weighty looking textbook of some sort, this pleasantly pulchritudinous young lady presented a vision of unabashed natural fecundity that the mind of humanity has associated with the arrival of springtime since the dawn of history.

The two enchanted 10- or 11-year-old boys who made it an obvious point to wander within a couple of feet of this young lady’s stirring tableau when they could have chosen any other route across the vast green lawn provided ample testimony that here indeed was a manifestation of springtime that even the young felt compelled to investigate and appreciate. Bravo to all such symbolic displays of advancing spring, I say.

Springing farther
As if young ladies disrobing in the park didn’t offer enough evidence to convince Culture Vulture that spring is upon us, our neighbor had a backyard party with live, loud outdoor music beginning at about nine o’clock in the evening. Few things say springtime quite as loudly as a group of teenage guitar-bashers rattling your windows on a Saturday night. Bravo to youth making noise, I say.

But we took said window rattling as our cue to stroll downtown to Mr. Lucky, the nightclub that was hosting the 40th birthday party of Brutilicus Maximus’ sax man Feeney. Upon arrival it became very obvious that the celebratory spirit of springtime had infected a large proportion of the populace: The place was packed. Not just crowded but filled to shoulder-rubbing capacity from front to back. The line at the bar was three deep as far as the eye could see. As club owner and Brut Max rhythm guitarist Matt Hogan put it when I saw him at Monday lunch, “It was nuts!”

The band was in fine form, too, costumed in everything from beatnik chic to leopard skin drag to Huggy Bear pimp to big-wig rocker to B-boy-bowler-hat-and-track-suit smoothness. All to play greasy, raucous versions of disco classics and raunchy, lascivious, down-and-dirty originals guaranteed to work dancers into a frothy lather. The place was sweltering. Stepping back inside after a quick nip into the Towne Lounge was like walking into a sauna. Except in this sauna the heated rocks were doused with a mixture of beer and Jaegermeister and sweat instead of clean mountain water. A young lady seated adjacent to me proved that the human larynx is capable of producing sounds of such volume and tone that they can be heard easily over a 12-piece electric band. I haven’t heard anyone make a noise that loud since I stood next to Bob Howard while Motorhead played at the Brick Works.

So take your allergy meds, kids; from all indications we’re headed into a resplendent and lively spring.