March 10-16, 2005

cover story

Hit Paraders

Photo By: Manuel Dominguez Jr

Welcome to My Face turns back the clock and cranks up the rock.

by Mike Newall

Strippers fawn like geishas. A waitress delivers a round on the house. The DJ gives a shout out. "Uh, we got Welcome to My Face in the crowd tonight," he says, not sure what to make of the five glammed out dudes at the table in the corner. "Hell," he shrugs, "I'd go see them for their name alone."

Lead singer Casey Wayne lets out a metal yell. The girl on his knee giggles.

The five of them — Casey Wayne, Brent Nova, Valentine St. Francis, Jay Cee Roxohv and Tommy St. Thomas — are enjoying a night out at the Gold Club in Center City.

"OK, this one's for Welcome to My Face," says the DJ, laughing.

Take me down to the paradise city
Where the grass is green
And the girls are pretty
Take me home
Oh, won't you please take me home

"Yes," shouts Wayne, raising a foaming bottle of beer. "This song rocks."

The music kicks in and the girls dance.

"This is so rock 'n' roll," yells Wayne, his mascara and raccoon eyeliner highlighted in the glow of the stage lights. "So fuckin' rock 'n' roll."

A dancer leads Wayne to a private room. She compliments his silver Iron Maiden Eddie face belt buckle and straddles him. She runs her fingers through his wig, knocking it out of place. Wayne casually fixes it, leans back and enjoys the dance.

•••

Hello, Philadelphia.

This is a story of spandex pants and Aqua Net feathered hair. Power ballads and stunt guitar. Devil horns and boobies.

It is the tale of five local musicians who rediscovered for themselves the healing power, the abandon, the who-gives-a-fuck-balls-to-the-wall attitude of rock 'n' roll by going glam.

They're not the future of Philly rock. They're not even the present, really. But they arouse the curious desire to party like it's 1985, and there's something to be said for that. Plus, their story offers a glimpse into Philly's woefully undersupported — and underreported — hard rock scene.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Welcome to My Face.

•••

When it's like this I feel the music shootin' through me
There's nothin' else that I would rather do
I wanna rock! Rock.
--Twisted Sister

Slave To The Grind: Casey Wayne Parker and Frank Vasile prep for a Welcome to My Face gig at Fergie's. Photo By: Manuel Dominguez Jr

It was May last year on a lazy Monday night at Fergie's Pub. Casey Wayne Parker was tending bar. With his square Irish jaw and thick black hair, Parker has a leading-man quality about him. But he was not himself that evening. He was distracted. He paced a lot. The hard realities of the music business were weighing on him. His latest original band, Short Bus, a hardcore metal outfit he fronted, had recently disbanded. Before Short Bus, there was Casey Parker and the Second Floor, a promising soul/funk group, which split shortly after the release of its first album, Busted. Parker was nearing 30, a milestone he didn't eagerly anticipate. The night was dragging.

Shortly after 9 p.m., Jim Cowen, a circulation assistant at the University of the Arts library by day and bassist by night, dropped in for a few beers. Cowen's a slim dude, with long brown hair and a penchant for ripped jeans, bandannas and '80s rock. Like Parker, his rock 'n' roll vibes were suffering on this night. His band, Fred F. Hopper, was on the verge of calling it quits. The band had a self-released album under its belt but little to show for it. They were still playing the same old bars. Rehearsals were tortured affairs, and bandmates were turning on each other. Cowen was tired of the whole scene, tired of fighting just to make it to the middle. And tomorrow, it was back to the stacks. He ordered his third beer.

Then "Ice Cream Man" by Van Halen came over the speakers.

"I love this song," yelled Parker, pumping his fist in the air and breaking into a dead-on David Lee Roth impersonation.

I'm your ice cream man
B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-baby
Ah, my, my, my
All my flavors are guaranteed
To satis-uh-fy.

Cowen was impressed.

"Can you do a Sebastian Bach?" he asked, referring to Skid Row's former front man.

"I can blow that pussy away," answered Parker.

Cowen had an idea. A big idea. A glam metal tribute band idea.

Parker mulled it over for a moment.

"That would rock," he agreed. "You set it up and I'm there."

The two shook on it.

Cowen made two phone calls that night. The first was to Tom Dorn, Fred F. Hopper's drummer.

"I'm down," said Dorn. "But we have to call the band Welcome to My Face."

The moniker was a reference to an episode of Family Guy (it's the name of a porno directed by Brian the Dog).

"It's a perfect name," said Dorn, enthusiastically.

Cowen agreed.

Next, Cowen called Frank Vasile, a school friend of his and a member of local rock band I Still Function. Vasile had played in a Top-40-Delaware-Avenue-type cover band and found it more business than fun. After hearing who was already on board, he figured Welcome to My Face would be everything but business. Besides, Richie Sambora was the reason he picked up the guitar in the first place. Vasile accepted and called his childhood friend, guitarist Mike Tobin.

Tobin had been out of the local music scene since the 2001 breakup of his metal band, First Intention. The group had been landing decent gigs but couldn't handle their first hint of success and acrimoniously parted ways. The experience left a bitter taste in Tobin's mouth. So, he decided to go straight. He took a job as an electrician and was nearly electrocuted in a worksite mishap at a minimall in New Jersey. Now he worked at an Ibanez Guitar warehouse, where he sat in a small cubicle 10 hours a day sampling guitars set to be shipped out for sale. He'd take one out of its case, play a few test licks, check it off a list and move on to the next one.

Tobin said yes, and a band was formed.

•••

Rise up! Gather round
Rock this place to the ground
Burn it up let's go for broke
Watch the night go up in smoke
Rock on.
--Def Leppard

The early months of Welcome to My Face were a whirlwind of activity.

First came an experiment to see if the band had chemistry.

"We all went to Tritone and got trashed," recalls Cowen. "There was an immediate camaraderie. Though I think I might have knocked Casey's beer over by mistake."

The icebreaker at Tritone was more than a marathon drinking session. The band managed to draw up an initial set list. Ten rockers. Three power ballads. Hits like "Rock of Ages," "Shake Me," "Nobody's Fool" and "Hot for Teacher." Plus, obscure tunes like "Get the Fuck Out" from Skid Row's 1991 Slave to the Grind album.

The group agreed that if they were going glam, they would do so on their own terms. "We had no intention of being a stereotypical cover band playing colleges or the Delaware Ave. clubs," says Cowen. "We wanted to play music we loved in the rock 'n' roll clubs and party our ass off while doing it."

The band made a pact. Instead of just covering glam, they would live it, embody it.

"Except for the fact that we'd be playing covers," says Vasile. "We wanted to approach it like an original band."

By night's end, Casey Wayne Parker had become Casey Wayne. Frank Vasile was now Valentine St. Francis, "the cock of the walk." Jim Cowen was J.C. Roxohv, "the band's Russian influence." (Cowen's Irish.) Mike Tobin was christened Brent "Superfuckin" Nova. And Tom Dorn became Tommy St. Thomas, "the man who keeps the rhythm to this sweet ass symphony."

Next came rehearsals.

Never Say Goodbye: Welcome to My Face rekindles memories of the Empire Club's glory days. Photo By: Manuel Dominguez Jr

Dorn soundproofed the windows and doors of his Manayunk row home basement with 3/4-inch particleboard and weather stripping sealant. Neighbors two blocks away complained of the noise.

"One night, we were rocking so hard the fire alarm went off," says Cowen. "Nobody was smoking. It was strictly from body heat. We just ripped it off the wall and kept going."

The band tore through the original set list and added new numbers. Parker was hitting all the notes.

"I'm the best rock 'n' roll singer in Philly," he says during a barroom interview. "I'm not afraid to say it. I believe it in my heart. People might hear that and say "Fuck you, Casey.' I'll just tell them, "Sing a cappella.' I'll listen. Then, I'll tear their shit up. What I have comes from training, years of training."

Parker's headbanging older brother turned him on to all the "greats." Def Leppard. Dokken. Stryper. Parker was addicted. But in the fifth grade, he got a chance to get out of his Trenton, N.J., neighborhood and took it. He had been accepted into the prestigious St. Thomas Choir School in New York City.

Parker was a star soprano, the purest of the male child choral voices. He had the kind of singing voice that little boys once got castrated to keep. He studied Brahms and Beethoven. Sang at Westminster Abbey in London. Shared a stage with Placido Domingo. Performed Easter hymns on Good Morning America.

"My choirmaster, Sir Gerre Hancock ... was the number one organ improvisationalist in the world, an amazing guy," says Parker between swigs of a beer. "In the seventh grade, I sat down with Sir Gerre and told him I wanted to be a rock star. He told me it was going to be a hard life. I told him I didn't care. A year later I got kicked out. I guess I was too rock star for my own school."

In late June, Welcome to My Face made their debut at a Fergie's open mic night.

The show got off to a shaky start with the band stumbling through Def Leppard's "Rock of Ages." The crowd offered polite applause. Somebody coughed loudly. The group then launched into a crazed version of Ratt's "Round and Round." Parker jumped on a table and spun the mic stand above his head.

They found their groove. The audience loved it.

"We were playing '80s glam metal for a bunch of Bob Dylan singer-songwriters," remembers Cowen. "But they rocked out."

The band played a string of gigs at Fergie's. Audience reaction was consistent: Some people left after the first note. The ones who stayed were in shock. The outfits. The wigs. The makeup. Parker's pelvis thrusts. After a couple of tunes, though, people started to nod along or tap a foot. They looked around to see if anyone else was doing the same. By the fourth or fifth song, the crowd's self-awareness crumbled and most rocked with abandon. Chicks danced and threw bras. Dudes banged heads. Encores were demanded.

"It gets pretty nuts," says Cowen. "Casey breaks something every time we play. Mic stands. Chairs. Tables. I think he may have even vomited once."

In September, Welcome to My Face played the Cabaret main stage on the closing night of the Fringe Festival. They were concerned their act wouldn't go over well with the artsy/indie crowd.

The band's eyes widened as they surveyed the stage. It was twice as big as any they'd played. They took advantage, racing, sliding and crawling across it as they played. Parker broke out all the moves. The David Lee. The Axl. The Elvis. The Jagger. The David Coverdale. The band wailed. The audience was frenzied.

Girls flashed their breasts and made out onstage.

The reaction was not lost on the band.

"That show was when I knew we were something more than just a cover band," says Tobin. "When we first got going, I thought we'd be a nostalgia act for people who grew up with the music. But these were kids in their early 20s and they were having the time of their life. We were inspiring girls to kiss each other, you know."

Perhaps it was the alcohol. Or maybe there's something timeless about loud, ridiculous rock concerned with little more than sex and partying.

"People were rocking out from the first song," says Parker. "There seemed to be this real appreciation that somebody was playing this music again."

•••

Shake me, all night, she said
Shake me, shake it, don't break it baby
Shake me, all night, she said
All night long
All night long baby.
--Cinderella

Glam has deep Philadelphia roots.

In 1985, when most of the members of Welcome to My Face were still in the second grade, glam — a mixture of '70s glam rock, heavy metal, makeup, hair spray and over-the-top clothing — was dominating the national scene. Bands like Whitesnake, Ratt, Def Leppard, Twisted Sister and Motley Crüe were tearing up the charts and ruling the MTV airwaves.

The Empire Rock Club at Tyson and the Boulevard was the only all-original rock venue in the Northeast, the Philly glam capital. In January of '85, the Empire began offering all-ages, all-original, all-metal revues every Sunday. The shows immediately took off and the club became a breeding ground for national talent.

The first and biggest glam band to emerge from the empire was Cinderella, whose 1986 album, Night Songs, is considered a classic. The band got its break after Jon Bon Jovi caught one of their Empire performances and then convinced his A&R guy to do the same.

"After we got signed, record companies descended on Philly," says Tom Keifer, lead singer of Cinderella, reached by phone in Nashville while mixing an upcoming solo album. "And there were so many good bands honing their stuff at the Empire."

Empire bands like Britny Fox, Heaven's Edge and Tangiers all followed in Cinderella's footsteps onto the national stage.

"Philadelphia and Los Angeles were the two biggest hotspots for hair metal," says Earl Butterhof, the house DJ at the Empire Rock Club from 1985 to 1989. "It was like the hair metal equivalent of Seattle in the 1990s."

On Sundays, the Empire's metal festivities would begin around 4 p.m., says Butterhof, or DJ Earl B, as he was known then. Hundreds of tailgaters would file into the parking lot. At 7 p.m., the music would begin and nearly 600 glam fans would squeeze like sardines into the small club.

"The movie Spinal Tap is so funny yet such a reality," he says. "At the Empire all the bands that really made a name for themselves had confetti bombs, choreographed moves, tons of makeup, stupid banter between songs, props and fire or explosions that was usually rigged up by someone who had no idea what they were doing."

The last band ended at 11 p.m., but the partying in the parking lot continued till early morning.

"It was unbelievable," says Butterhof, who often styled his hair so high he'd be unable to sit in his car and have to walk to work. "It was such a great time, such a party. Everybody hung out together and got along. It was a seven-day-a-week thing."

The women at the Empire looked just like they did in MTV videos, says Butterhof, who now lives in San Diego and spins at a rock club under the name DJ E Money. "The hair spiked up," he remembered. "The smallest skirts you ever saw and even tinier tops."

AIDS was just a rumor then, he recalls, and more than anything else the glam scene revolved around sex. Lots of sex.

"It was a crazy lifestyle," he says of Philly's hair metal halcyon years, which ended when the club closed in 1989 as alternative rock exploded and the Empire crowds dwindled. "You just thought it was going to last forever. You never assumed it wouldn't."

•••

I see you standing
Standing on your own
It's such a lonely place for you
For you to be.
--Guns N' Roses

The highlight of Welcome to My Face's Jan. 12 show at Fergie's Pub came when Parker sang Def Leppard's "Photograph" while a female fan rode him like a horse.

The live performances were developing a following and the band was beginning to think of bigger horizons. They set their sights on a Feb. 5 gig at Club 218, where they would close a bill featuring local hard rock bands Divinity Destroyed and Omegalord.

"We want to start playing gigs with original bands," explains Parker over a post-show beer. "There are so many good rock and hard bands in this city that get no attention. It's bullshit. We can help. We'll bring 50 to 100 people that normally wouldn't go to a rock show. And the original bands can bring their own audiences and original tunes. We want to help create rock 'n' roll parties."

Philly hard rock bands are indeed often overlooked by local press.

Take Omegalord for example. On March 12, the groove-oriented/heavy rock band will release their new CD Hammer Down, which was produced by GWAR guitarist Cory Smoot, aka Flattus Maximus, and is expected to propel them onto the national metal scene. Still, though, the band struggles for local ink. And there are many others like them. Hellblock 6. Cipher. Liquid Cloud Nine. 13 Even. The Hixon. The list goes on.

Hard rock/metal, a niche genre to begin with, has also suffered from Philadelphia's shrinking musical landscape.

In the '80s, as glam rock ran riot in the Northeast, Center City was a bastion of rock 'n' roll clubs.

There was the Hot Club. Bacchanal. Bigilows. The Ripley. Grendel's Lair. J.C. Dobbs. Act 1. The East Side Club. Revival. Starr's. The London Victory Club. The Omni. The Elks Club.

"It's hard to even imagine how different it was then," says Leo Eisenstein, frontman for the popular Philly '80s rock band DuckTape. "The music scene in general was a lot less pigeonholed." Bands knew each other, he says, supported each other, partied together.

"It's so competitive now," says Omegalord drummer Bob Bannon. "A lot of the heavy rock bands don't embrace each other and have a hard time bonding together to form a scene, which is a shame because there are so many good bands and the richer you make the scene the stronger it'll get."

No one thinks Welcome to My Face, a cover band, is going to be the saviors of Philly's hard rock scene.

But Bannon says that Welcome to My Face's "rock 'n' roll parties" can't hurt.

"They can definitely pull people out who normally wouldn't come to a heavy rock show," he says. "They're fun and make people comfortable by playing songs everybody knows."

•••

The Club 218 show was a success. The house was packed. Omegalord showcased material from the upcoming album as well as audience favorites like the furious-paced ode to hallucinogens "SkullBong." Welcome to My Face closed out the evening. A mosh pit broke out during their final encore, rock standard "My Michelle."

Before the show, Welcome to My Face hung out in the club's pool room and waited for their cue.

The band drank beer and posed for photos.

Parker stood alone and sipped a lager.

"This has been so much fun," he said, reflecting on the band's wild ride so far. "I'll go back to my original stuff at some point. We all will. But I was burnt out before. This has been the musical equivalent of hitting a heavy bag. A therapy session."

Parker was nervous before the show. He wanted the band to kill and prove that they can share bills with popular original bands.

"I rolled the dice hard this time," he said, adjusting his bandanna and checking his makeup in a bar mirror. "The audience could dismiss us as a cover band, a gimmick, a joke. But I don't think of us as a gimmick. For the next hour, we're just going to let loose everything that's been bothering us for the last month and rock the fuck out."

With that, Welcome to My Face took the stage.

Welcome to My Face will appear Sat., March 19, $5, 9:30 p.m., with Showin' Tell Band and High Council, Abilene, 429 South St., 215-922-2583.