By Artie Capshaw

Ow! To be outed in the Letters section of the very periodical for which we scribble!

We were given a heads-up, so to speak, about the letter, and could have responded in one of those italicized addenda right after it on the same page. Instead, we choose to address the issue here, for two reasons. One, this is our domain, where you expect us to spout. Two, for us, this is not a sexual issue but a musical one.

It all started when we were slammed as a homophobe for writing mincingly of a local drag diva. You could say it really all started not with the letter but with our article, but we are among those who still don’t know what all the fuss was about. Suffice to say we pissed off someone who couldn’t quite explain why they were pissed off. And that pissed off even more people.

Anyhow, post-slam, a well-meaning soul from the scene rushed to our defense with the revelation that we we knew whereof we minced, that we’d kissed a boy and that he, our righteous defender, should know.

True enough. We won’t elaborate, except to say it’s only half the story. In the great traditions of jazz and fusion and cross-genre experiments and remixes, we are proud to relate that (to use another musical term) we swing both ways.

Here, look at our record collection. There is a nary a club-dance track, extended or otherwise. But check out the stacks and stacks of sequin-studded made-up dudes in platform (and even high) heels stomping and shouting out anthems of individuality and acceptance. Those are anthems to which we doff our hat and pat our heart: “PoMo.” “Dual Attraction.” “Closer to Home.” “Any Other Name.” You’ve probably shouted along to them yourself—though you may well complain that you didn’t understand what these songs were about. Well, we do.

We are as bi as a cycle, as bi as a focal. Plane-ly, we’re bi. And we have our record collection to thank for it.

We’re sure we’re not alone in this. We wager that more people locate their sexual center through their clubhoppings than their bedhoppings. The club scene is less anxiety-prone, less prone in a whole lot of ways. The undercurrent is heavily sexualized, but in a way that formalizes and dramatizes and verbalizes and harmonizes the act. It’s hard to be closeted in a club.

So that’s our story, and —ewww!—we’re sticking to it. Nevertheless, we apologize to that initial letter-writer who took offense at our suggestive language regarding Fairy Fay a few weeks back. We’ll doubtless continue to offend, but we’ll also continue to apologize, because we realize respect must be paid to all eager listeners in this scene. Almost everything we write about is “not for everyone,” yet we do it all in one place. We will take care in future to warn the more tender-eared fans to cover ‘em when we wander in certain suck-centric directions.

But back to our own orientation, and a final point of order. If we were reading such revelations about another writer, we know what we’d be asking—not “What’s he like in bed?” but “How does this horniness impact his reporting?” Namely, in our case: Have we slept with Fairy Fay—or Polly, Wally or Doodle, for that matter? And the answer is no, not even in our dreams. We have not had, or sought, such an honor. In most matters of the scene, we love what enters our ears—the music—better than anything that might enter other orifices.

And we dare you to bi that.

But enough about (sodo)meee! Here’s what’ll be assaulting your earlobes, and shaking your extremities, in days to come:

The Canterville Ghosts at the Bullfinch—national act, yes, but with sterling local openers For Love of the King, Star Child and Vera & the Nihilists. … For one night only, the Model Marvels become the Model Millionaires. It’s for a Casino Nite fundraiser at frisky frontwoman Millie’s alma mater, Windemere High School (on the Windemere Green; band starts playing 7 p.m.) … A daylong dose of gloom Saturday for the first annual Selfish Giant festival in the basement of Urbs Sacra Aeterna Hall, across the street from (and vaguely connected to) the university on the hill. Thirteen bands in twelve hours: Les Ballons, Rome Unvisited, The New Remorse, The Burden of Itys, True Knowledge, The Fisherman & His Soul, Her Voice, London Models, Decay of Lying, Massacre of the Christians, Young King,  Roses & Rue and Pen, Pencil & Poison. It’s a battle of the bands, though truth be told at least half these bands are making their debuts—side projects worked up for the fest. Dress as your favorite yellow book … Devoted Friend, By the Arno and A Vision assail Hamilton’s. The first and last and cover bands; the one in the middle might as well be. … Tell your parents that Fabian de Franchi, famous local Italo-pop warbler who held court in the Gold Room of the Harmony Italia restaurant for decades, has come out of retirement for a concert Saturday at the Pan Center, a charity event for Madonna Mia.

Hmmm… that’s two charities and a French philosophy-inspired high school rock festival. And you doubt our free spirit?