Drumming superhero Brad Derrick is taking a hiatus to nurse his sore computer tendons and the Secret is calling it quits. After five years of blowing refined funk, ska and soul in our fair city, the ultimate incarnation of Andy Rowland's band is disintegrating. Outback Lodge Wednesdays won't be the same, but we'll look forward to hearing what's next from the talented Secret crew.

Junebug jives Myotonia

Wednesday, 1-5-2000 -- Myotonia pulled off a suprise gig at Orbit Billiards by hauling in a fresh bass player and one of Stable Roots' drummers. The resulting group played a fine set of jazz, old school funk and reggaefied jazz standards for a moderate but happy Orbit crowd. The band is a melting pot project for jazz guitarist George Turner and Baaba Seth's Mike Chang (electric guitar) and Hope Clayburn (alto and soprano saxes). Though both guitarist are conversant in jazz, they are tonally distinct, Turner's guitar work being more "traditional," and Chang's being more rock. Set against them is Clayburn's powerful sax playing. The result is a refreshing jazz/funk variation at the rock edge of the jazz spectrum: jazz you don't need a degree to get into.

Thursday, 1-6-99 -- Finally getting off my feathered duff shortly after midnight, I waddled over to the Outback Lodge to see if reggae groovestars Stable Roots were Y2K compliant. Sure enough, they were cranking for an elated crowd in the Outback's newly remodeled main room.

Santa was really good to the Outback this year. The band space looks about twice the size it used to (there's alot more dance floor) and a large window has been cut in the dividing wall so that patrons can watch the band from the bar. Hurrah! Our medium-sized rock venue is now more user-friendly.

Two Morticians

Friday, 1-7-2000 -- I couldn't resist tagging along with Bella Morte to an unusual gig they'd been invited to play up in D.C. Bound, a bondage and humiliation fetish festival was being held in downtown's new club Element.

The journey started with a ceremonious airing of a Fat Boys tape singer Andy Dean had found somewhere for 50 cents. "I'm black in the middle," he explained while grooving to the human beat box. We were drawing some attention driving down the road (Andy has seven inch spiked pink hair) but I'm sure the people around us would have been really confused if they knew we were listening to the Fat Boys. "Brtlrtlrtlrtlrtlrtlrtlrtl stick 'em, uh, uh-uh stick 'em!"

On arrival we were greeted with parking hassles and a bunch of immigrant car wash employees who would not let us have our way -- not even for five minutes. All apologies to any cool people who live in D.C., but that place kinda sucks. As a big city, it smacks of possibility, but there's a foreboding full-of-crapness about it. Scenesters in Washington D.C. seem to think they're pretty hot, and to give credit where due, club Element is a very cool looking place. Big, elaborately decorated and full of hidden VIP lounges with curtains and wrap-around sofas illuminated by psychedelic jello lighting, it would be a very groovy place to gather your posse and cavort. But it's expensive. When in full swing a reserved table will run you $150.00. Not only will you require an attitude to hang out there, you'll probably need to fill out a credit application. You'll also want to raid the dog's wardrobe. Admission for the Bound show was $7.00 if attired in fetish garb, $25.00 if not. A leash and collar are a good start.

The show itself was wierdly beautiful and almost hilarious. Middle-aged bald men in leather corsets were strapped to racks and tormented by viscious-looking dominatrices. Scantily clad women in leather skirts and fishnet stockings were also victimized. The humiliation came when victims were left hanging, bare-assed and gagged, with their Fruit-of-the Looms around their knees, while their dominators went to get a beer. I laughed, I cried, but I wasn't going anywhere near those racks.

Bella Morte was luke-warmly recieved by the mostly older crowd. The band had been hired on the merits of their second CD, Where Shadows Lie, but the audience wasn't giving in to them and they were greeted by some dancing, scattered applause and relative indifference. The masochists may have been appreciating their energetic performance but were just too preoccupied by the risque thrill of their own public half-nakedness. I got drunk on the band's tab, bought a purple whip from a biker selling leather stuff and passed out in the van.

Raphael at Miller's

Saturday, 1-8-2000 -- Karmen opened a night at Miller's for Raphael Wintersberger. Raphael's little P.A. is a bit too small for a long room like Miller's -- especially as full as it was -- but both bands were well recieved. Karmen's Fridgean Mode added Claire Quilty's Stuart Gunter on drums, providing a nice skeletal backbone for her pretty folky pop. Raphael played with Ben Jacobs on bass and Gunter on drums. I'd venture to say that Raphael is one of the more interesting songwriters around. His stuff has an intelligent spaciness about it that, despite comparisons to Dave Matthews, is really quite original.

"Bring out your dead."