CREEM ONLINE: Eleganza

Eleganza
by Pamela Des Barres

One of my favorite blissy experiences each year is the fantastic four-day, music-crammed South By Southwest music convention in Austin, Texas. This ultra-groovy, friendly city is an oasis of hipness, a refuge from surrounding Republican rhetoric, a shelter from the eerily frightening Bush-storm in progress.

I was doubly (maybe triply) excited this time around because my old flirtatious friend and rock god icon, Robert Plant was scheduled as the keynote speaker, and he was going to play a set with his new band, Strange Sensation. Back in my grand old feather boa days, I was squired around, draped on Jimmy Page's slim, white arm, but Robert and I always had a unique connection that I was eager to re-explore.

Since I recently acquired the exalted title of Style Editor of this illustrious publication, upon arrival, I immediately focused my attention on what the revelers were wearing. Bad idea. Way too many pairs of expensive "designer" jeans, and endless Nike, Adidas, and Fila wearers interspersed with a few fairly cool pairs of Converse.

It's true that comfort is of the essence here, as you have to hightail it from one end of town to the other to catch your fave acts, but isn't this supposed to be rock and roll? (I still blame the beloved Kurt Cobain for the continuing T-shirt culture, but I suppose Brando was the earliest culprit) Yes, there were a few folks living up to the classy vintage cowpoke image, with their multi-hued cowboy boots and H Bar C embroidered '50s gabardine shirts, but at least half of those milling around had to be musicians, proving that High Fashion has, sadly, become old fashioned.

I was occasionally treated to eye-popping eye candy when one of the many Japanese pop bands would stroll by looking a pastel parade in progress or a passel of two-tone Dreamsicles. They seem to take the best of American rock glam and turn it into living, breathing, singing animation.

Bob: "Yes it is, and I am happy to see you!"
Pam: "You know a place in Austin to find some mud shark sushi?"

I often complain that the pomp and visual majesty petered out with big hair bands like Mötley Crüe, but at least they're dolling up on stage these days. Speaking of dolling, I eagerly looked forward to seeing the New York Dolls' gig at Stubbs, certain that David Johannsen wouldn't disappoint, and praise Elvis, I was finally visually (and sonically, of course) rewarded.

Although his sublime face is carved and ravaged, Johannsen somehow still retains an aura of youthful belligerence with his feathery bangs and long fluffy do. And I was dead chuffed that a sheer double layered chiffon skirt emblazoned with the image of an Indian god floated around his black leather trousers. He did sport a flowery girlie blouse over the dreaded t-shirt, but at least it was blazing orange and clung ferociously to his fat-free frame. Up and down his ropy arms bangles chimed and jangled, along with the requisite glistening layers of chains and crosses. Sylvain Sylvain modeled a smushy street urchin cap and the new guitarist did a spot on dyed-black ratty-hair version of the late Johnny Thunders, complete with lip-glossed sneer. At least they were Dressed Up.

One of the cloud-nine thrills for me was introducing one of the true legends at SXSW this year, Ian McLagan and his hotshot Bump Band at the Rajiworld showcase. The old Faces keyboard player was decked out in a flowy, patterned shirt, his spiky bleachy hair standing up every which way, a perfectly cocky Brit grin on his face. The old dogs could certainly show the youngsters a trick or two about pizzazz.

The buzziest news around town was that the Golden God himself, Robert Plant was breathing Austin air. He had been spotted at Antone's, grooving on the old blues dudes, and later ambling down 6th street, encircled by his faithful entourage.

After getting up too early and waiting in line with other laminated press posers, I sat patiently during Robert's press conference while serious folk asked significant musical questions. Then, as Mr. Plant's handlers began to round him up, I popped out of my seat and queried, "So, do you still have groupies?"

For a bemused second or two it looked as if Robert might try to come up with an intelligent answer, but soon realized the doll he used to call "Miss Pamela," was the one doing the asking. "Miss P! I can't believe it's YOU!" he howled, leaping up from behind the press table and meeting me in the middle of the room, where he picked me up and gazed at me as if I were the third coming. It was one of those stellar moments in life when time stopped as the flashbulbs popped. He pulled me into the sanctum area, where we marveled at each other before heading to the Oasis, a magnificent eatery a few miles away on an idyllic lake. We gabbed joyously like 25 years hadn't passed, and that night he packed the Austin Music Hall, while I stood by the side of the stage like the good ol' glory days.

I'm pleased to report that Robert dressed for the occasion, wearing a slinky, elegant, long-sleeved black shirt and a pair of shimmery green mohair trousers. His hair is still ringletty blonde, and he throws it around like the master he is. The final surprise song was "Whole Lotta Love," and after about 6 minutes of heavy metal heaven, he moaned those classic words, "Shake for me girl/I wanna be your back door man…"

I closed my eyes and remembered Robert's slay-day rock star stance, those crotch-defining, painted-on, lace-up sex-jeans that he wore with that tiny, frilly, open-to-the navel chiffon top, and for a brief and golden moment, I was a nubile nymphet again, twirling 'round and 'round in my antique velvet mini-dress, with nothing on my mind but the saving grace of rock and roll.

April 2005

Photo by Gary Miller