“Are you afraid of daddy’s cock?”
Such was the taunt of Robin Black at a jury of his peers and execs during his CD Release party at Lee’s Palace (Barfentine’s Day). What were the media relations elite supposed to do in the face of such a blatant disregard for their hierarchy? Let the motherfucker rock out! Let the Lord of Faux Fur sashay across the stage! Let the self-proclaimed man of tats and piercing camouflage through the dark and glint in the strobes!
So amidst vinyl pants, onstage bartending and pyrotechnics, Toronto’s Robin “Fucking” Black and the Intergalactic Rock Stars introduced their latest assault on rock ‘n’ roll: their new CD, Planet Fame, 15 tracks of glitter-rock, three of which are bonus live tracks.
But all the cursing and shameless self-promotion is myth and legend. I wanted to take a softer look at the life and times of Canada’s self-proclaimed Saviour of Rock. Meeting at the Shanghai Cowboy down on Queen West with Mr. Black finds me equipped with make-up remover to reveal the real Robin, the gentler Robin. What kind of RNR hybrid is he?
Black calls himself the result of a horny Deborah Harry cross-pollinated with a salacious Iggy Pop as Elvis comes in to do a little backdoor federal delivery as the neighbourhood mailman. Still, he says his first concert ever was Alice Cooper but his all-time favourite RNR spectacle was Van Halen’s 1984 tour. Take the “gender-bending” of Cooper and the physical elasticity of Roth, make them eat Canadian back bacon drizzled in maple syrup and subject them to about 25 years worth of Canadian winters and you’d come out with Robin “Fucking” Black.
Watching a Robin Black show, it’s obvious that the man thrives on attention…being the spectacle. And the audience eats it up like candy. Peeling back a few more layers of mascara, I ask him: What is the worst possible thing an audience member could do at one of your shows?
“The worst thing an audience member could do would be to act with indifference.” Black goes on to relate that he sees his shows as a place of total Rock and Roll acceptance. No one should be fighting. At the very least, they should be going for gold while playing tonsil hockey with the David Bowie look-alike next to him/her.
But enough of the people in Vancouver! Walking around Toronto, Black’s persona isn’t exactly shocking. Especially when compared to some of the creatures strolling around Queen and Sherbourne after midnight. But in Nowhere, Alberta, things are a little different…how does Robin “Fucking” Black fare on tour? Robin talks about successful shows with Cheerleader and Bif Naked, and says a possible gig with local girls-done-good Tuuli is on the horizon for April. Still, Black and the IRS are met with hesitation from other touring bands, who are stunned by the pyrotechnics, glitter and fire-breathing bartender. “We are an impossible act to follow. We are a one-of-a-kind band…I mean, really, would you want to go on after we’ve played a show?”
Tying Robin Black and the University of Toronto (two VERY disparate images) together, Black imparts some of his incredible RNR wisdom for you bookworms slogging it out in the stacks:
“Drop out of university and pick up a guitar—you’ll definitely get laid more than if you’re in philosophy.”
