New York or Bust

My neighbor Venus is the front person for a band called All the Pretty Horses. He or she sports a lovely pair of partridge-sized breasts that peek out over a leather bustier, a talent for fearsome guitar licks, and a vocal apparatus that effortlessly blends the power of Diamanda Galas with the decadence of David Bowie. The subject of Emily Goldberg’s upcoming documentary Venus Of Mars, my neighbor redefines notions of rebellion and where it comes from: It’s one thing to be a transsexual glam-goddess in Manhattan’s seen-it-all Meat Packing district, where trannies strut their stuff as a matter of course. It’s quite another to walk into Mill’s Fleet Farm in Oakdale at eight in the morning, wearing a lace-up midriff and standing six feet tall in platform boots. So when All the Pretty Horses went to New York City a few weeks ago to promote their new album (title: Dolls With Balls), I tagged along just to see the effect this inexplicable band would have on the city that’s supposedly been there and done that.

One thing is immediately obvious. For all its recent tragedies, all its supposed jadedness, New York has not seen everything. The Pretty Horses still make a strong visual impact, even on Third Avenue and 25th Street on a hazy summer afternoon. They look like a Jim Rose circus act without the irony. The back-up dancers’ flaming neck tattoos and Mohawks aren’t retro, and they aren’t kitsch. It’s hard to explain, but they’re just… plainly sincere. And it’s the sincerity more than anything else that shocks, whether it’s New York or Minneapolis.

We settled into the Carleton Arms, a hotel where every room is an art installation. From there we trudged over to Le Bar Bat, where the Horses were scheduled for a “showcase” gig. The promoter assured everyone that there would be plenty of “industry” present. The Horses were to headline. The show got underway, and the warm-up bands presented the usual neo-punk, garage-rock tropes—New York Dolls and Ramones references, young boys in black playing a half-step off time. It was good, but it’s the usual.

Then All the Pretty Horses took the stage. Venus and the band rocked the house in ways it has not been rocked before. It was practiced, professional and, unlike all the punk posturing, genuinely disturbing. What did all these little rock and roll kids make of a six-foot tall transsexual jumping off the stage and getting down with the guitar like a heavy metal god crossed with Marlene Dietrich? I walked up to one drop-jawed member of a band naughtily named Smack Darts and asked if he liked them.“I have to admit,” he said, “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“What is that,” I asked, “when you see something you’ve never seen anything like before?”

“I guess…” He stops to think. “Originality.” I can’t help thinking an old-fashioned, punk-rock thought: Originality is always threatening, especially when paired with quality. And that’s as true on the edge of the country as it is in the middle.