One Big Release

Is it us, or does the phrase release party conjure up all sorts of naughty images? In any case, that’s what we hoped to find at Review Magazine‘s issue release party at Balanca’s Pyro Room.

Review — the highfalutin’, artsy-fartsy glossy that’s a wee bit incomprehensible to philistines like us — started throwing these shindigs a couple of months ago on First Fridays, after the galleries close. The concept of art eludes us sometimes, but the release party spoke to our baser side. We’d heard that its inaugural event was a raucously drunken time, so when we got an invitation that promised a kissing booth, gothioke and free haircuts, off we went with Research Assistant Erik to check it out. Of course, by checking it out, we really mean “inspect the make-out booth to make sure that it meets code.”

After paying a $5 cover, which included a copy of the magazine, we bellied up to the upstairs bar and ordered Jack and Cokes. As we drank, we admired the cool black-light piece hanging above the row of booths. It looked to be a bunch of neon squiggly wine bottles painted on a big rectangular block of butcher paper. That was definitely more pleasing than a previous exhibit spotted at Balanca’s, which consisted of black-and-white drawings of intertwined people, including an oh-so-charming depiction of a guy taking a crap on a woman. Not the release that we envisioned.

We sat in a booth and sipped our drinks as we waited for the doors to the basement Pyro Room to open. At a booth against the wall, two women made out, and all around, scenesters mingled and greeted one another enthusiastically. When the downstairs opened, we descended into the dimly lighted, mirrored red room and discovered a thing of beauty: a heavy pour.

Armed with our Jack-friendly drinks, we wandered around and looked for the missing-in-action kissing booth. Baffled, we staked out a spot and took a blotto-eyed look around. Though the party drew a pretty good crowd, it never got annoyingly packed. In the back, a woman stood under a bright spotlight cutting hair. She paired her great vintage lacy top and short white skirt with gorgeous red satin heels, and her blond bangs peeped out under a beanie-shaped hairnet festooned with tiny flowers. Not long after the party started, the Late Night Theatre guys made their entrance, fresh off opening night of The Birds. Tippi Hedren (aka Ron Megee in a green Chanel suit and a perfectly coiffed blond wig) rocked out onstage to the Hawaii Five-O theme song. “He can surf. But can he dive?” asked RA Erik.

We’ll never know. Tippi left the stage, then Maygun Marie’s gothioke started up. Clad in black leggings emblazoned with skulls, makeup circles under her eyes, Maygun started things off with Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.” Gothioke soon fell victim to 311’s “All Mixed Up” and — much later in the night — “Summer Nights” from Grease.

Before everyone started splashin’ around, though, we witnessed another thing of beauty: a tall blonde slowly walking down the stairs. She was backlit from the upstairs level, so all we could make out was an incredible pair of legs (clad in black, gartered stockings) clearly visible through her diaphanous hot-pink dress.

Those legs were attached to our buddy Chadwick, who proceeded to get onstage and lip-synch Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show’s “I Call That True Love.” During his hot dance number, he coyly flashed the two sequined, pink pasties that covered his man nipples. (Cool new Ranger feature: Check out clips of his performance here and here)

We were a little worked up from his performance — and from the whiskey. Then, we met 36-year-old Phillip, who approached us while we were looking at a table full of magazines. He was wearing a cool brown suede jacket with abalone buttons, which he said his grandfather got in Mexico in the 1950s. The KC native also told us that he’s a painter and photographer who throws Iron Chef-like parties at his house. We asked him about secret ingredients and such, but for some reason, we didn’t get an answer. Oh, yeah — that’s because we were both kinda lit. Instead, we asked him about the most unusual place he’s done it.

“I love to have sex, and I love to tell stories,” he replied. Yay! We like to hear stories! He said he and a now ex-girlfriend were watching a show at the Hurricane. The GF was wearing a tight, short skirt, so up went his hand into el skirt. “We were fucking each other on the dance floor,” he claims. Overcome with lust, they fled to the patio, where they did it behind an amp that was covered in blue tarp.

How was it?

“It was hot,” he replied. Of course it was. We’d like to think that they enjoyed a post-coital drink served up Hurricane-style: in a clear, plastic cup with a lid and a straw. No, make that two straws and one cup, with lots of eye-gazing.

Speaking of to-go iced-coffee vessels, we then spotted a familiar midtown face: one of the baristas from Broadway Café. Meg was staffing the kissing booth, which consisted of a red loveseat with a heart cut out of its back. She told us that the booth was more a performance-art piece, in that she was paying people a dollar to kiss her. The kiss was documented on Polaroids, which would be part of an exhibit at the Old Post Office.

“It’s a humoristic approach to dating in Kansas City. It’s paying people for affection,” she explained as she pulled out a wad of dollar bills. We asked her what she thought of the state of the date around here. She agreed with the reigning sentiment that it can be difficult, in part because KC has the “small-town comfort, no new faces” thing going on. Well, we were happy to finally put a name to her face, so perhaps the small-town facet isn’t such a bad thing sometimes. We kissed her on the cheek and tried unsuccessfully to refuse the dollar.

While we were canoodling in the back, a couple of women dressed as men were lip-synching onstage. We assumed this was the “he manz vs. she manz” part of the night — the female counterpart to Late Night Theatre. To our surprise, Kelly, the daintily dressed stylist, who had disappeared, showed up again with a dark-haired wig, a mustache and, best of all, an eye patch. Kelly later told us that she’s more experienced with scissors in hand, not a mic. That night, she gave eight haircuts.

By then, the party was winding down, so we stumbled out before the lights came on. Our one release at that point? Going home and crashing, which we successfully accomplished. Hey, supporting the arts is hard work, but we’re glad we did our part. We’ll drink a toast to that, plastic-cup style.