The most talked-about punkers on the planet, Nashville Pussy, blow into town.
By Ron Bally
MAY 26, 1998: WHAT HAS THE meaty, double-barreled guitar action of veteran arena rocker Ted Nugent, the circus-in-hell stage pyrotechnics of Kiss and the balls-out, ear-piercing speed metal fury of Motorhead? That would be Nashville Pussy, of course. The band has been touring non-stop, performing more than 200 live shows in the past year, and they bring their riotous rock-and-roll sex romp to Club Congress on Friday, May 22.
Any Nugent fan worth a damn should know the name "Nashville Pussy" was swiped from the intro to "Wang Dang, Sweet Poontang" from Double Live Gonzo. But the similarities to Wild Man Ted end there. Nashville Pussy is the most talked-about punk rock band on the planet right now.
Why, you ask? Maybe it has something to do with the explicit cover art for its debut CD effort on Amphetamine Reptile, Let Them Eat Pussy, which has sold 25,000 copies since late January, despite being banned by several distributors and major record store chains. On the cover art in question, two hot-looking babes who make up one half of Nashville Pussy are in the throngs of oral copulation from two faceless and beefy bruisers--and enjoying every second of it.
Like this uninhibited and graphic display of lascivious behavior, the Nashville Pussy aural stimulation centers on sex, booze, reefer and porn. Nashville Pussy's music is all about energy; its live show is just as dedicated to entertainment. Rabid fans and the curious are flocking to shows (a recent gig in Boston attracted 600 lunatics looking for danger). Combining street-tough savvy with sexually potent dynamism, Nashville Pussy leaves some listeners drooling with the dismal prospect of going home alone to beat off, and the rest cheering on two dominant and free-spirited female forces in rock and roll today.
Let's face it: Sex sells. Just ask Monica Lewinsky. And Nashville Pussy isn't shy about exploiting its sexuality. Bassist Corey Parks sports an inviting Harley-Davidson "Eat Me" tattoo just below her belly button. The fact that Parks, at the Amazonian height of 6-foot-3, spits fire on stage like Gene Simmons and allegedly worked as an escort for Heidi Fleiss adds fuel to sex-filled innuendo and her notorious stage antics.
"Oh my God, no one's asked that question yet," exclaims vocalist/guitarist Blaine Cartwright via a phone hook-up from Cincinnati last week. "Wow. I don't know. That's the rumor (regarding Parks' alleged connection to Madame Fleiss). I've never asked her that."
Whatever the truth, there's no denying the potent physical presence of Parks. She's tall, tough-looking and drop-dead gorgeous. Her on-stage demeanor is just as raunchy, hard-nosed and lethal. She'd sooner kick a guy in the balls than fuck him. The fire-belching act incites even more peril. "Her old boyfriend taught her," Cartwright reveals nonchalantly.
Has Parks caused any fiery on-stage accidents? "Fuck yeah," he answers. "Nothing's caught on fire ever, but we've had to make her stop from going out into the audience. We get too many crazies at the show."
Anchoring the other side of the stage is Cartwright's wife, lead guitarist Ruyter Suys--a coiled bundle of venomous energy who strikes with deadly accuracy when she strokes her six-string instrument. At a sparsely attended performance at Club Congress last June, Suys, dressed in skin-tight leather "Stars-and-Stripes" pants and leopard-skin bikini top, prowled the stage like a cross between Angus Young and Ivy Rorschach of the Cramps. She taunted and mocked the delirious males in the audience as she cranked out screaming guitar leads from her '84 Gibson SG and Marshall half-stack.
Parks, her legs spread wide apart in a classic rocker pose most of the set, mashed her bass strings with such sexual ferocity it would've made Joan Jett blush. Newest addition, drummer Jeremy Thompson, banged his skins like a southern-fried Marky Ramone, his tasty stick work was finger-lickin' good.
One of Nashville Pussy's biggest fans, who attended last year's gig with 50 other inquisitive freaks, was Hollywood actor and part-time Tucson resident Stephen Baldwin. During the show he stood in front of Parks, drink in hand, snapping countless shots on his cheap Instamatic. He was so enamored with the band, he followed them to Los Angeles. Baldwin even put them up in some ritzy, five-star hotel in Hollywood for five nights.
"It was pretty fucking nice," says an awe-struck Cartwright. "It was really luxurious. He paid for everything." Cartwright says the band hasn't seen him since a performance in New York City last fall.
Cartwright, an 11-year member of hillbilly punk terrorists Nine Pound Hammer, was described by one reviewer as "a dead-ringer for Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade."
He chuckles good-naturedly at the comparison. "That's cool," he says. "I'm sure it was meant as a compliment. I guess it (the comparison) was because of the lack of hair. People ask me if I'm the roadie if they haven't seen the band yet because of the way I look. There was a thing in Trouser Press (Rock Guide) that said Nine Pound Hammer had a certain affinity for life's losers--Nashville Pussy are the losers," he concludes laughing. By any means necessary, catch a glimpse of luscious Nashville Pussy this week.
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