Big John Bates & the Voodoo Dollz Blog

So last night, Teddy Smooth and Eroc at Citr were minding their own business when myself and BJB descended on them and took over Cabaradio, I guess part of the problem with UBC being so remote is it’s pretty easy to sneak up on radio hosts when you have a big, black diesel-engine bus. I sometimes forget hoe stealthy the Murderbus can be.

What we did get out of the show was a good mix of music, both live and recorded as well as a exclusive: the first live performance of BJB’s newest song, Jaws Of Victory, which the band will be recording for a 7″ this Sunday. We also wanted to thank Dale fSawyer for being the winner of a pair of tickets to the Voodoo Ball on Friday as well.

All the quips and songs can be found for download or streaming here:

http://playlist.citr.ca/podcasting/audio/20100202-230401-to-20100203-003950.mp3

Don’t forget to tune in every Tuesday night to hear Cabaradio as well on Citr. It’s radio with sass!

Now I’m off to sew some scary looking syringes onto a bra for Friday night…

Ciao!

Little Miss Risk

Normally I like to throw out an odd little fact or piece of arcane trivia that no one except myself or crossword puzzlers would be interested in. Friday is usually when I like to do these things but as my Friday got away from me yesterday (which BJB swapping stereos at Casa De Risk and hoofing it to my tower in East Vancouver) it fell by the wayside. Now with the weekend ahead, I thought I’d share a strange little bit that you may have not previously appreciated…

“When English writer Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928) died, his heart was kept apart when his body was cremated. The idea was to bury it in Stinford, England, the home of his beloved childhood church and his family’s burial plot. All went according to plan until his sister’s cat jumped up onto her kitchen table and snatched the heart and ran off into the woods with it.”

Source: The Book Of The Bizarre,  Varla Ventura

The moral of the story? Don’t be late feeding the cat when your brother’s earthly remains are on the kitchen table. For myself, I can think of at least several things that are wrong with that particular story (and I mean wrong as in demented, not inaccurate).

Enjoy your Saturday!

Little Miss Risk

When I’m sad, I like to recall things that make me smile. I think of Cat Yodelling, dogs in hats, or raccoons. Many folks have asked me how I came to associate myself with the little urban bandits and therein lies a story… 

So it was in Invermere that BJB and I were looking up Animal Spirit Guides. We had bugger all to do before our show later that night and so were poking around in a new age gift shop. After we’d seen our fill of dream catchers (yawn) and pseudo-occult Goddess-loving bric-a-brac, we happened onto the books. The one that caught my eye was the animal spirit guides, so  pulled it and thumbed through looking for ‘raccoon’.

Well, bugger me if it didn’t describe me pitch perfect. None of this hazy, descriptive stuff that plagues horoscope gibberish, this cited specific behavioural examples which left me chilled to my theoretical ringed tail. This thing had me dead to rights, and we circulated it amongst ourselves. I didn’t actually buy a copy of it, but if it’s still in the shop with my smudgy fingerprints on it, I’ll have to purchase it next time. And maybe a dreamcatcher.

It wasn’t that book that was the catalyst. What happened went down in 1980 when my mother began carrying the squiggle that would later turn out to be me. My aunt, her sister, had adopted a baby male raccoon named Angus. He was a puckish little ball of fluff who grew up in two years to be a healthy 50 pound male. His delinquent activities included eating slugs from the garden, digging in the potted plants, and finding one little snag in the wallpaper and doing full scale stripping of walls. He was adorable and completely destructive.

He also had a sense of humor. As my mother’s belly grew and her lap disappeared, he’d slink up next to the couch like he was going to pounce on her lap (of which there was less and less). As he flung himself at my mom, he’d deke out at the last minute, galloping away and twirling on the carpet, loving this great game. I think at that moment, the uterine quakes my mother experienced induced this raccoon mantle on her unborn daughter. I had the curse of the raccoon.

Like many things, it lay dormant for a number of years, not starting to blossom until a chance doodling of raccoons with wheelbarrows on a coaster in a Hagen bar and finally coming full circle in Invermere with that book. So if any of you wonder where this obsession with raccoons lies, that is where it all started. A pet raccoon named Angus with a great sense of humor.

Namaste.

Little Miss Risk

In the spirit of New Year’s resolutions, I feel this blog will fall into that category. Recently, due to my extremely mind-body oriented roommate, Miss Lola Frost, I have been hitting the yoga mat everyday. As expected, I can’t really do that in Vancouver without coming across a slew of Lululemon slogans here and there, but for the most part they are helpful chunks of good advice. My favorite is a Eleanor Roosevelt one that states “Do one thing a day that scares you”. I think that confronting some truths about the reality of burlesque and bands might be in order. Time once again to get back up on that ol’ soapbox and talk about the myth versus reality of what to expect, what goes down, and why I dislike getting lumped into the same mess…

Myth: Starting up a band/getting into burlesque to attain a girlfriend/boyfriend.

Okay, so I’ve heard all about the guys who start bands to get girls (cough, cough, JB) and girls who get into burlesque because they want to meet and mate with guys from Motley Crue (no accounting for taste). Let me tell you that’s a bad idea… I probably shouldn’t talk because the only people I have really dated/been with in the last six years are performers. One I worked with closely (still do) and the others have been because they understand what it’s like to be on the road, deal with snarky sound guys, etc. But if your driving reason to do art is to nail someone, then maybe you should think about being a lawyer or something that makes money. Most artists are starving and will cheerfully accept company and a meal… (please see: Mom! I Fed This Dancer And Now She Won’t Leave on tips how good company but NOT to be a freeloading ho-bag)

 Myth: Being onstage makes you hotter

I think it’s safe to say we’ve all seen someone on stage before at a show who gets ten percent more attractive *because* they are on that stage, and not in spite of it. It’s good to remember that yes, they are hot when they are doing a drum solo/tassel twirling, but try to ask yourself are they still going to be that hot when they miss their rent and you’ve got to cut a cheque or they have their feet on your coffee table and have drank all your Drambuie. Maybe it’s the ultra-good lights that comes from being onstage that flatters those under them, but if you get offstage and your still an asshole who steps on kittens than your hotness factor I think is debatable. Better to try and and be a kind person offstage so as not to break the glamour of the spell those expensive club lights cast on you.

Myth: You will get paid for your first gig, and every subsequent one

I have done a lot of free shows. A lot. I remember the goofy dance I did when I got word I was getting an actual PAID gig. Now that might be crummy management OR because I was paying my dues. I see a lot of new bands expecting to get paid supporting slot cash when it’s their first gig. Gas money, sure and drinks but if you aren’t drawing people in like flies to honey and murdering your set, then don’t roll in and act like Aerosmith. Likewise, don’t drink all the water backstage. Sharing is a good thing. I also see a lot of burlesque dancers who are new and fresh-faced who jump onstage after taking a course and then look around for their paycheque right after. While a good chunk of the new kids put quite a bit of work into their costumes/props/routines, there are a lot that don’t and wear their La Senza bustiers as costumes. When you spend more time and coin on your dance/presentation then I’d be willing to pay you to perform, but not before. But in the meantime, here are some drink tickets and help yourself to whatever water the other band has left backstage.

Myth: It’s okay to get shitfaced at the show.

It’s not. Get over.

Myth: Your Dita Von Teese and should be treated as such.

Your not. Get over it.

Myth: Glamours backstage accommodations will always be provided to you.

Venues come in all different shapes and sizes. I have played a castle, I have played a squat. I have had my face cheek-down on one of the most disgusting bar floors in Vancouver, and shaken my ass at 10,000 people in Germany. And the backstages have all reflected differently. Sometimes, if you are a burly-Q girl, you will be required to change/get ready in the bathroom, while people are coming in and out. Be polite – these women will either scream for you or stand there with their arms crossed depending on how nice you were to them when you were sharing a counter in the ladies room a moment ago. Sometimes the backstages are huge and beautiful and you want to share the experience: with your girlfriend, your friends, your drug dealer, whatever. It’s fun to be a rockstar and invite people backstage, but in 99% of the cases your there to work and so are other people. It’s always good form to clear it with the other performers before you bring someone backstage, especially if your not the headliner (but even if you are, asking other people is a good way to make friends and show your not a pretentious asshole).

Myth: That’s YOUR booze in the backstage.

Share. Didn’t your mom ever teach you sharing is good? So man band fights I have witnessed because someone drank something they weren’t supposed to. Hey, I have, but someone pointed out nicely to me that MY fridge was elsewhere and that was the crew’s booze. Apologies were made and it was all good. Even if it IS your booze, honest mistakes happen and you should tear a strip out of someone for it. Making friends with booze is always a good way to meet people, especially if you have, a gazillion beers and only one person in your band drinks beer. Share the wealth.

Okay, lecture is over for today. Now be nice at your shows or your Fairy Blogmother will hear about it and call you out.

Namaste.

Little Miss Risk

Some people of a cynical nature might suggest that a bit of white washing is going down in regards to the Vanoc committee. It may be unfair to regard a private corporation who holds sway over a city as a bunch of insane corporate yahoos who’s only goal appears to be bankrupting the city for a one time shot at world re-known. If I wasn’t a lady, I’d probably say “Oh shit, the Olympics are coming – there goes the neighborhood.” But in trying to give the Vanoc peeps a fair crack at the benefit of a doubt, let’s face it… they are kind of shooting themselves (and a lot of other folks too) in the proverbial foot.

I live close to downtown. Which is going to be enforced that you can only walk, cycle or take transit. Normally, that might sound all Gibson-esque Utopian, but as a water locked city, that’s going to make it hard for a lot of locals to get around. Add on top of that the out-of-towners who will be descending on our fair city like a plague of locusts, and all of a sudden any and all public transit becomes a giant group grope. As much as I try to justify it, that just doesn’t sound appealing to me. I also can’t picture a shit ton of Olympic athletes and their respective entourages bringing their own bicycles. I think that the phrase “What the fuck were they thinking?” might suit this situation. But it gets a little more interesting…

Consider that the Vancouver Symphony refused the invitation to record music for the 2010 ceremonies (probably on the grounds that most of them can’t get to work because of the idiotic temporary traffic rules). What actually happened was they were asked to record the music but have VSO maestro Bramwell Tovey step aside and let someone else pantomime his movements for the games. Yeah… I don’t know of the mom’s of Vanoc’s committees are suitably embarrassed at their offspring yet, but I’m beginning to wonder where Vancouver’s theoretical federal mother is on this one.

I just have to wonder, since you would think if you have thirteen kids (or provinces and territories) and one is making the rest of the family look like damn fools, then wouldn’t the parental unit (or federal parental unit, as it were) come down and give them a cuff upside the head? And failing that, wouldn’t the rest of the family (or Commonwealth countries) start making remarks that would suitably embarrass the head into taking action? I don’t know.

I might no complain about this so strenuously if this kind of coin was dropped on arts funding, but then again the rampant commercialization would probably just wind up leaving a horrible bitter taste. So in lieu of that, I’ll take the taste of my green tea, try to get zen, and hope that all the athlete’s kneecaps painlessly pop off at once, thereby calling the whole deal off.

And I will go make some scones to try and get rid of that bitter taste in my mouth.

Namaste.

Little Miss Risk

Happy NUDE Year!

As a shadow falls over the city, and lamplighters ply their trade, we
believe that it must time again for the 4th Annual Voodoo Ball held
Feb.5th at the Rickshaw Theatre where we shall hold you in the musical
thrall of our scientific romance!

Descend with us into Bangtown where, against the art deco ruins, moans
the punk-blues of Big John Bates and the Voodoo Dollz.  On this crazed
tour of the back alleys ladies of the night walk in the day, Erte
meets Alice Cooper, you may fall in to a time machine or be seduced by
Victorian gargoyles.  Add deadly, neo-burlesque fusions and
retina-burning numbers and this you will want to check your life

insurance policy before attending! To start their new year off with a
bang, Big John Bates and the Voodoo Dollz are using their magic to
entice you to their party of ill repute, the Voodoo Ball!

With percussive hitmen Vancouver’s Swarm and, fresh from the darkest
forest, Victoria’s Hank And Lily as musical guests, we will also
experience I, Braineater’s “Lord Jim King Cum & the Powder Monkeys”.

And, to grind your gears, pulp-gaslight burlesque with Burgundy Brixx,
Cherry Ontop, Lola Frost, The Purrfessor plus some surprising special
guests! Visuals presented to you by the esteemed Paul Hendriks and

joined by the musical harmonium master, DJ Teddy Smooth!

 Big John Bates and the Voodoo Dollz
 4th Annual Voodoo Ball
 Friday, Feb.5th
 The Rickshaw Theatre
 254 East Hastings Street
 9PM – 2AM
 Vancouver, BC

Facebook event link: http://www.facebook.com/photo_search.php?oid=263158772036&view=user#/event.php?eid=263158772036

-Little Miss Risk

So there I yesterday, in the kitchen, and one of Australia’s most deadly critters came marching along the counter. This was my first encounter with a redback spider. I managed to trap it under some glass to take a photo of it, but as you can see, it was a harrowing experience…

red back spider

Then, all of his buddies showed up. I think I must have disturbed a nest in the kitchen some where.

The Nest of Redbacks

I was able to shoo them off of the counter and into my dad’s lunch case. I’m sure that seeing ten redbacks looking up at him instead of the chicken curry he *thought* that he had packed will shock him, just a little.

Points to anyone that notes the David Bowie spider. He’s my favorite. I hope he gets eaten last. Where when most people say that they are doing baking before Christmas, it usually means gingerbread, fruitcake or cookies. Not in my family. My mom and I go and make spider cupcakes… this is why my family is cooler than yours.

Little Miss Risk

So in the spirit of the Christmas season, I’ve fixed the problem I normally have at this time of year to singing carols. I just take a sacred favorite and change the words to suit my lifestyle choices.

These G-Strings

(sung to the tune of “We Three Kings”)

These g-strings of raciness are,

covered with my sparkly art!

Kind of whorey, but not boring.

Sure to make the crowd go RAWR!

(Chorus)

O Swarovski crystals, small and bright -

Hope the glue will hold you tight.

Running low, but I’ve got a show -

Looks good in the spotlight.

Okay, now add a verse of your own now.

Seasons beatings,

Little Miss Risk

I’ve made a new friend, sort of. He’s small, sort of shy (but kind of pervert) and has really hairy legs. He hangs out by my parents pool all day and watches me swim and occasionally is good enough to fish some gross bug out of the pool that’s drowned and eat it for me. I’m talking about Wolfgang, the Huntsman Spider.

It didn’t really start out as a good relationship. The first time we met, he was by the fountain and I was swimming, so my face was more or less eye level with him (in all his six inches of glory). I screamed because a) I’m not used to having spiders half a foot from my face and b) we made eye contact. Of course, I screamed and he did what any sensible person would do, and that’s run and hide, and I can’t say I blame him.

But he has proven to be a curious little bugger and very interested in my swimming habits and always comes and sits at dusk and watches me paddle in the pool. If it’s been a windy day, or the Insect Suicide Hotline had a bad day and the pool is full of soggy bugs, I flick them in his direction and he disposes of them in his own way. Like any animal that gets used to you feeding it, he’s come to associate my splashing with snacks and has thusly been keeping the pool free of the usual wasps, flies and lesser spiders. I daresay he even enjoys the Metric and Chromeo I splash around too and is quietly bobbing his head to the sweet techno grooves.

For anyone not au fait with what a Huntsman Spider looks like, check out this video on YouTube to see what I’m dealing with…

So due to his clearing the pool of bug my mom has taken to calling him out Poolboy. And he works cheap too… I only hope he doesn’t get too friendly and try to join me but after seeing the fate of nearly all other insects around who get the overwhelming desire to play Ophelia, he may have taken note. Or else at least started fashioning a very small rowboat.

G’Night.

Little Miss Risk