Christmas - at Lobotomy Room! Friday 2 December 2016

Inaugurate the 2016 Christmas party season on a note of sweaty desperation on Friday 2 December – at Lobotomy Room! When we transform the Polynesian-style basement Bamboo Lounge of Dalston’s premiere Art Deco vice den Fontaine’s into Santa’s grotto!

For the final festive and boozy Lobotomy Room of 2016, we’re combining the film club AND the dance party into one night! COME for the free screening of the most kitschy and campy of all seasonal TV specials – Pee-Wee Herman’s 1988 Playhouse Christmas Special! Watch agog as bow-tied perverse brat Pee-Wee welcomes a mind-boggling cavalcade of super star special guests to his playhouse - including queer favourites Grace Jones, Little Richard, Cher, Joan Rivers, Charo, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Oprah Winfrey and kd lang!

Afterwards, STAY for Christmas cocktail capers at free incredibly strange dance party Lobotomy Room! Wilder than you can imagine! Explicit beyond belief! Revel in sleaze, voodoo and rock’n’roll at Lobotomy Room! Where sin lives! A punkabilly beer blast! Sensual and depraved! A spectacle of decadence! Bad Music for Bad People! A Mondo Trasho evening of Beat, Beat Beatsville Beatnik Rock’n’Roll! Rockabilly Psychosis! Wailing Rhythm and Blues! Twisted Tittyshakers! Punk! White Trash Rockers! Kitsch! Exotica! Curiosities and other Weird Shit! Think John Waters soundtracks, or Songs the Cramps Taught Us, hosted by Graham Russell (of Dr Sketchy and Cockabilly notoriety). Expect desperate stabs from the jukebox jungle! Savage rhythms to make you writhe and rock – with some abrasive atomic-era Christmas tunes thrown in! Vintage erotica projected on the big screen all nigh for your adult viewing pleasure!

/ Because nothing says "Christmas" like vintage gay porn and snarling punk music! Celebrate Christmas with a twist - at Lobotomy Room! /

Putrid music! “Adult” movies! Won’t you join me for a snowball or eggnog and learn the true meaning of Christmas with Pee-Wee Herman? Whether you’re naughty or nice, a tawdry good time is guaranteed!

Doors to The Bamboo Lounge open at 8 pm. Film starts at 8:30 pm

/ Below: Christmas pin-ups via John Waters' favourites Edith Massey and Jean Hill /

Facebook events page

Further reading:

Read about all the previous antics at Lobotomy Rooms to date here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here , here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here

Follow me on tumblr for all your kitsch, camp, retro vintage sleaze and fifties homoerotica needs!

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"Like" and follow the official Lobotomy Room page on Facebook if you dare!

Mixed Bag O' Shite Updates: Part Two! Last Blog Before Christmas

Tom of Finland Christmas

Things have felt rushed and chaotic since Autumn 2012. First DJ’ing at Bestival, followed by a long weekend in Paris in September 2012, then two weeks in Canada (I got back 2 November). A couple of draining weeks of jetlag and cold ensued after that.  Next thing I know, we're hurtling towards Christmas!

My mind has felt fogged-over and distracted lately, but there is a backlog of stuff I want to blog about. So this entry will be a bit of an epic catch-up about various random (schizophrenic?) things that have preoccupied me over the past few months.

/ Gee: Do you think he dresses to the left? /

Friday 19 October 2012 was the opening night launch party for an exhibition of the red-hot 1950s beefcake / physique pin-up photography of John Palatinus at the Space Station Sixty Five gallery in London. Needless to say my friends and I were there. I’ve long been an admirer of Palatinus’s work, and photos of naked men and free booze are two of my favourite things in life. As a bonus, Palatinus (now an impressively dapper 83-year old) and his curator and archivist Alan Harmon were there in person (and very articulate and affable they were, too). Anyway, the party was a blast.

/ Photographer John Palatinus and curator Alan Harmon /



/ Christopher and I in front of one our favourite shots /

Palatinus’s 1950s bodybuilder rockabilly pin-ups may be slathered in baby oil and virtually naked except for engineer boots or a sailor's cap, often with ropes or chains coiled around them, but they still retain a sweetness and naivety which would be impossible to capture today.  (This is the same quality that also makes mid-century female cheesecake photos of, say, Bettie Page or Jayne Mansfield so beguiling. It’s hard to define: an un-ironic lack of self-consciousness?).

More examples of Palatinus at his best, all taken circa the late 1950s

I find this model (apparently named Bob Ireland) particularly heart-melting. He looks so au courant with his sexy, scruffy little beard. If he rocked up to The Joiner’s Arms or The George & Dragon in Shoreditch looking like that, he wouldn’t be buying his own drinks all night

Palatinus was arrested on obscenity charges in 1959 at the height of the McCarthy witch hunt era. Most of his work was seized and destroyed. What was especially fascinating about the exhibit (which closed on 18 November 2012) was its inclusion of contemporary newspaper articles covering Palatinus’s arrest: the press didn’t just publish his name and home address – it also detailed the full names, addresses and occupations of his mail order clientele! It makes you shudder thinking about the shame and destroyed lives of these presumably closeted men all over the US in the repressed 1950s, for something so innocuous. We’ve come a long way, baby!

Afterward, my friends and I continued the party at ultra rough, old-school boozer The Little Apple nearby in Kennington. Christopher embraced the spirit of things by donning a sailor cap. (The cap is actually mine! I lent it to him; Christopher was going to be playing a sailor in a pop video).

 

Read more about John Palatinus on his official website. Alan Harmon's V-M-P Vintage Male Physique blog is a real treasure trove; I highly encourage you to check it out. You can see more of my photos from the night on my flickr page.

I avidly follow Decaying Hollywood Mansions  in all its manifestations (it's a Facebook group, a tumblr page and a blog). Think of it as a guide to the haunted, eerie and crepuscular subterranean underbelly of Old Hollywood, in the vein of Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon. A few months ago they posted some intriguing photos of the actress Merle Oberon in the long-forgotten, very kitsch-looking 1946 Technicolour exotica oddity A Night in Paradise. (It looks like the cinematic equivalent of Yma Sumac's delirious music). 

Merle Oberon in A Night in Paradise (1946)

I hadn’t thought of Oberon in ages and it reminded me of her strange, secretive life story. Her exact origins will always be clouded in mystery, but it appears the Anglo-Indian Oberon was born in 1911 in Bombay of mixed race heritage (her mother was Indian, her father British). For the entirety of her life (she died aged 68 in 1979) Oberon denied her biracial background and “passed herself off” as white. When her dark-skinned and sari-clad mother eventually moved with Oberon to her Hollywood mansion, Oberon told everyone she was her maid! Oberon was widely regarded as one of the great beauties of her era; apparently even Marlene Dietrich was jealous of her. To modern eyes, she certainly looks like an exquisite Asian woman (film historian John Kobal would accurately describe her exotic beauty as “jasmine scented”).

Nonetheless, it wasn’t until years after Oberon’s death that her secret was unmasked in a biography I remember reading as a teenager. (In this regard, her story echoes that of musician Korla Pandit's).

An almost scary 1930s portrait of Merle Oberon. The lighting makes her look like an escapee from a Josef Von Sternberg film

Who are we to judge? In the 1930s miscegenation was strictly taboo; a biracial race actress could never have become a mainstream star. Oberon emerged from an impoverished background and apparently had a steely determination to succeed. It could be that Oberon was a far better actress in real life than she ever was onscreen. The great irony is that if Oberon is remembered at all today (she’s mostly not, except for playing Cathy opposite Laurence Olivier’s Heathcliff in the 1939 adaptation of Wuthering Heights), it’s not for any of her film performances but for being the half-Indian actress who painstakingly concealed her ethnicity – the one thing she didn’t want anyone to know about!

The great Self-Styled Siren film blog devoted a whole entry to Oberon’s story a while back, comparing her to the doomed and conflicted mixed race character Sarah Jane in the 1959 Douglas Sirk melodrama Imitation of Life. It’s the balanced and ultimately sympathetic account that Oberon deserves.

Coco and I at my mother's place. Re her green-ish paws: my brother-in-law had just mowed the lawn, the grass was damp and Coco ran through it

Since moving to London twenty years ago now, I make an annual trip back to visit my family in Canada. I usually aim to get there around the beginning of September when "peak season" is over but the weather is still relatively summer-y and I can swim (my mother lives walking distance from the beach). This year the airfare was so prohibitive I had to wait until late October (I was there 22 October – 1 November), which meant I was home for Halloween. I divided my time between my mother’s place in Norway Bay, Quebec and my sister’s in the suburbs outside Ottawa, and spent most of it sleeping (averaging 11 hours a night), eating (I’ve gained about ten pounds), playing with my nieces (Maya, 10 and Miranda, 8) and getting to know their new dog – an adorable Shih Tzu called Coco.

My mother and I

I’d forgotten what a big deal Halloween is in North America. Check out my flickr page for how elaborately the people of suburban Ottawa decorate their houses for Halloween (and loads of shots of the many moods of Coco).

Vampire princess Miranda in her front yard on Halloween night



Miranda and I




Maya and I. (Her costume was "bloody nurse")



Portrait of Warhol drag queen Jackie Curtis by Leee Black Childers. No one documented the iconic Warhol drag Superstars (Curtis, Holly Woodlawn and Candy Darling) better than Leee

On 5 December 2012 my friends Christopher, Mari and I went to the launch party for Leee Black Childer’s book Drag Queens, Rent Boys, Pick Pockets, Junkies, Rockstars and Punks at The Vinyl Factory (a chi chi art gallery in South Kensington). In case Leee needs any introduction: In the 1960s he was one of Andy Warhol’s assistants; later on he was involved in the management of the music careers of the likes of David Bowie, Iggy and The Stooges, The Heartbreakers and Levi and The Rockcats. Throughout, he was photographing everything: the Warhol Superstars, the whole decadent Max’s Kansas City and Chelsea Hotel milieu, glam rock, and the emergence of punk on both sides of the Atlantic. A natural raconteur, in the essential oral histories of punk (like England's Dreaming and Please Kill Me), Leee is always interviewed as one of the key witnesses and scene makers. His wonderfully grainy, gritty and evocative portraits of the Sex Pistols and Warhol drag queen Superstars in particular are like cat nip for me.  (Obviously there were other photographers documenting the Warhol scene at the time, but Leee’s photos of Curtis, Candy Darling and Holly Woodlawn have a real intimacy and rapport). I’ve known Leee for several years now via mutual friends and usually wind up seeing him when he comes to London (he’s based in New York). It was really gratifying to finally see his work get the deluxe coffee table book treatment (and accompanying exhibit) it merits.

Needless to say, I snapped a few shots on the night.Before heading to Leee’s party, we assembled for Happy Hour drinks at Simmons Bar in Kings Cross (great place; I highly recommend it. It has a skull-shaped disco ball!). They had a lurid hot pink (or should that be fuchsia?) acrylic Christmas tree in the corner that transfixed us. So artificial! So Jayne Mansfield! And so futuristic: it was like a Space Age Barbarella Christmas.  



Christopher and the glamorous Mari

Christopher and I



Mari and Leee




Leee, Mari and novelist / journalist Rupert Smith




Leee and I way back in September 2008 at Cockabilly at The Moustache Bar in Dalston




I can claim to actually have been photographed by the great Leee Black Childers myself, once! He took this shot at the club night Polari at the sadly now defunct Trash Palace bar on Wardour Street. This was also taken in September 2008. Left to right: Rupert Smith, Christian Rodrigues and me

Check out photos from the last time Leee Black Childers was in town on my flickr page

I held my annual Christmas cocktail party on 5 December. As promised (threatened?) on the Facebook events page:

Right: Am thinking of having another intimate Christmas cocktail party chez moi again this year. For those of you who came last year, you know what to expect: I live in a shoe box! Seating is minimal, so you will have no choice but to stand and mingle for the most part (or sit on the floor). The couch represents the elite VIP area. Kitsch and abrasive 1950s and 60s Christmas music will be cranked up LOUD (my CD player is fixed!). I don't "do" food, so eat beforehand, although there will be olives and crisps! (I make these things sound so tempting, don't I?). I will be making snowballs, but I only have one bottle of Advocaat and I ain't buying another one, so if you want snowballs, arrive early to avoid disappointment. After the snowballs, am thinking oceans of icy Cava and maybe Prosecco!

Anyway, the party really swung. In fact it rocked! A week later I was still finding stray bits of broken glass, wasabi peas and roasted peanuts under the sofa bed. Here are a few shots from the night (there’s loads more on my flickr page). Look at these and try to imagine how hung-over I felt that Sunday. Then multiply that by ten.


Paul smoking his head off




Sally and Paddy



Lauren and I, Part 1



Lauren and I, Part 2




Marlene Dietrich, Eric and Divine: all in one shot




Eric and Sally




Christopher and Lauren. They are in a band together called Spanking Machine, by the way, destined to be big in 2013. (Don't you love how the red dumb bells in the corner match Lauren's dress perfectly? What's that about?!)




Dez and Paul. I love this shot of Paul: at his most louche, gesticulating wildly, smouldering cigarette on the go

Right: I’ve pretty much brought things up to date. There was no Dr Sketchy at all this month, so I didn’t DJ any Christmas music which felt a bit sad. The most exciting but nerve-wracking bit of upcoming news is that I’m launching my club night Lobotomy Room on Saturday 29 December 2012! It’s happening at Paper Dress Vintage in Shoreditch. The organiser / promoter Steve is going to be away that weekend, he had nothing scheduled for that night and offered it to me, to launch my night in a low-key, no pressure way. (I know it’s very likely loads of people will be away for the holidays. London can be quiet the week between Christmas and New Years). Fingers crossed, if this goes well Lobotomy Room will become a regular monthly occurrence in 2013. Wish me luck: I’m shitting bricks / sweating bullets / having kittens trouble-shooting all the things that could go wrong! Hopefully my next blog will be posting the set list from the first night of Lobotomy Room.

Lobotomy Room ... it's coming!

Anyway, this is almost certainly my last blog before 25 December, so Merry Christmas to everyone! I know I post this pic of Jayne Mansfield every year but it never gets tired.

Christmas Cocktail Capers! 10 December 2011

My brutally minimalist Christmas decor (it's the same shit every year!). Shame this photo isn't Smell-o-Vision: the Muji Christmas candle is Cinnamon and Mandarin-scented. In the background: the damned, DAMNED stereo that died mid-party.

For the past few years I’ve been holding intimate but swingin' Christmas cocktail parties chez moi at my tiny studio flat in Archway. (See photos from previous parties here and here). This year’s fell on Saturday 10 December 2011. On the Facebook events page I created, I warned potential guests in advance:

Food will be minimal, so make sure you EAT FIRST. I live in a tiny studio flat (in the heart of London’s glittering Archway) with limited seating, so you will inevitably be forced to stand and mingle. I will be playing kitsch, abrasive Christmas tunes until you beg me to stop. (Do you still want to come?).

It sounds like I was setting the bar kind of low, huh? Looking back, here’s what I learned from my 2011 cocktail party:

1) Nobody really likes snowballs, in the same way very few people actually like mulled wine or mince pies. Snowballs are so intensely sweet they’re not exactly more-ish. So in retrospect I wish I’d only bought one bottle of Advocaat. I also bought a jar of maraschino cherries to garnish the snowballs with, and wound up only using a handful of cherries. Decades from now when the police recover my decomposed remains from this flat, that jar of cherries will still be there untouched in my cupboard.


My inspiration: Nigella Lawson knocking up some snowballs

2) Campari is definitely an acquired taste! I first had it in Rome and have come to love its extremely dry, bitter almost cough syrup flavour – but I was definitely in the minority. After the snowballs were drained, rather than open the second bottle of Advocaat I switched to another Nigella Lawson Christmas cocktail recipe (not sure if it has a name): Campari, blood orange juice and cranberry juice – it makes for a festive deep blood-crimson colour. Later on, I realised most people had barely sipped these and then set them down untouched. (I mentioned the unpopularity of Campari to my glamorous Roman friend Laura Casella and she fired back via Facebook, “Campari e' molto buono!”). So next time I’d stick with flutes of icy cold Cava or Prosecco – which everyone loves. (Nigella can steer you wrong: she once suggested buying the gingerbread-flavoured syrup that Starbucks flavours their Christmas gingerbread lattes with and adding a drop to glasses of Cava, claiming it tastes like “Christmas in a glass.” In fact it instantly turns a perfectly good glass of sparkling, clear Cava murky, flat, opaque and sickly sweet! That sticky bottle of gingerbread syrup – which wasn’t cheap, by the way -- sat untouched in my kitchen cupboard for a good two years before I finally chucked it out).

3) It was also just my luck that my CD player finally broke down the night I was having a party! It’s a faithful old 1990s relic which has lasted – and sounded great -- for ages, but it’s been gradually acting increasingly erratic and unreliable. The internal “eye” has stopped reading CDs properly: they either won’t whirr into action at all, or they’ll skip in a way that’s so annoying it’s like an audio torture device straight out of Guantanamo Bay. So I had to play my lovingly-selected Christmas CDs (all my atomic era Ultra-Lounge kitsch Christmas ones, Christmas albums by everyone from Mae West to Elvis to Chet Baker, etc) via iTunes on my PC instead, which sounded muffled and tinny.

At one point I put on a “joke” Christmas tape I’ve had since my student days at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario – a cassette called Christmas Party Dancing (the cassette part of my stereo was still working. Yes, it has cassette decks. I did say it was old). It's the kind of ultra-cheap budget cassette you would have found in a discount bin at a gas station in the 1980s. I wish I could scan the cover or find an image of it online: it’s a photo of a smiling young Afro-Caribbean woman with cornrow braids (she’s meant to signify “disco") wearing a red hooded fur-trimmed Santa’s cape (which signifies “Christmas”), with the title Christmas Party Dancing in zany red and white lettering and really bad old school clip art of a burning candle. It’s the most jaw-droppingly awful collection of Christmas carols re-interpreted as the naff-est possible disco music. Anyway, I put the cassette on as a camp-y joke but people seemed to think I actually thought it was good, so after a few uncomfortable minutes, I took it out again!

4) The entire first part of the night I was so busy mixing drinks I barely got to talk to anyone! The first set of guests had to leave by midnight to catch the last tubes home (they lived as far flung as South London and West London). The next shift of guests arrived circa midnight and stayed until 2 am (one friend -- my old mucker, French rockabilly Dominique -- helped me polish off some remaining bottles of Cava until 5 am!).

In spite of the above, my party was mostly a blast, if I do say so myself. Here are some shots of my elegant guests. If you want to see more, check out my flickr page.


Julian, Mari and Anthony (just to clarify: those curtains came with the flat, OK?)


Mari, Anthony and Rob


Christopher and Lauren (who are in the art-punk band Matron together) and the unpopular Campari cocktails


Christopher and Damon


Welsh people unite: Julian and Lauren


Who knew mixing drinks was such sweaty work? The blotchy, sweaty hosty and the glamorous Mari


Were two people ever more photogenic? Julian and Mari


No, he's not giving her the Heimlich Maneuver: Lauren and Julian


Two kinky blondes: Magda and Lauren


International sex kitten Magda raises a glass


Damon and I


Dominique and I