Thursday, 20 November 2008

icon: mickey avalon

Like a young Mick Jagger, the singer is shirtless and skinny, ugly and pretty. He strolls across the stage holding a microphone, then grabs a noticeably drugged-out backup dancer and kisses her on the mouth. He shoves her hard across the stage, and she stumbles in her heels and falls forward onto the floor, legs splayed apart in her short dress, eyes closed the whole time. “Mickey . . .


The singer’s head dips and bobs to a pounding beat emanating from the club’s sound system. His friend, also shirtless, stands next to him, leaning out over the crowd and pouring tequila into opened mouths as if delivering a communion. Raising the microphone to a face adorned with glittery, half-smeared makeup, the singer surveys the scene before him. Screaming girls? Uh-huh. Jealous and sexually confused boys? Sure. Sold-out show at the legendary Roxy? Okay.
The singer tosses his longish hair back and begins to rap. There’s a certain disconnect, yet strangely it works. His voice is a slightly effeminate drawl, teasing out the words . . .
article excerpts from 'Mickey Avalon's True Hollywood Stories' by John Albert, LA Weekly

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