Having recovered their car after some confusion with the Mexican valet parking system, Momus and Gilles drive to Beverly Hills in the rain. What do Hollywood and Momus have in common? They're both curated by the Japanese. They turn out to be the Roosevelt's principal residents.
#Cynthia plaster caster collection full#
The lobby today is full of cool young Japanese kids. There's a party for the aftermath of some soul music awards ceremony going on in the lobby, and a lot of bejewelled and flashily dressed soul brothers and sisters, the shoulder-padded, diamante black entertainment bourgeoisie, are lurching through the lobby, drunk and giggling.ĭay dawns over Grauman's Chinese Theater. Momus and Gilles (Matt will join them in a few days, after returning the tour Jeep to his parents) drive their rental car to the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard, which will be home for the next few days.
Their LA gig, sponsored by Lounge magazine, was meant to be happening in this most Loungecore of buildings, but was switched at the last moment. The scifi lounge at LAX is familiar to our heroes from the cloth backdrop to Beck's shows. Looking at these unending acres of light bordered by water, there's no way of knowing if the areas spread out below are immensely rich or hellishly poor, Beverly Hills or Compton. Momus thinks of Blackout, the filmscript Serge Gainsbourg wrote in the 80s about a catastrophic electricity failure in LA. The orange lights of this monstrous metropolis, as you overfly it by night, are a never-ending electric carpet, like a million candles fizzling at a satanic rite. Momus leaves Chicago, tail between his legs, leaving the shame behind on a five hour flight with Gilles to Los Angeles. She shows Momus the firm manliness of John of the Mekons, 'a nice guy with a big cock, which is a pretty rare combination'. (Jimi's cast, by the way, is in a bank vault).
The woman who cast Hendrix speaks of her collection with the precision and pride of a botanist or butterfly collector. Momus showers for a third time in Cynthia's bathroom then is given a tour of the penis musuem.
'What a pity,' exclaims Cynthia when it becomes clear that the erection has wilted on the third casting, 'the head looked so fat, but we're not going to get an accurate representation of the shaft.' (Pretty much like a sexy synthpop concert tour, I guess). It isn't even the presence of John of the excellent Aluminum Group, hovering as Cynthia's assistant until Momus asks shyly if he wouldn't mind waiting in the other room.Īnd no reflection on Janet Chen, the 'plater', with whom Momus ends up writhing on Cynthia's brightly-lit, newspaper-covered kitchen floor naked, his stand in damp plaster, his tongue in her cleft, desperately trying to imagine he's engaged in a spontaneous sexual act rather than a synthetic performance in front of strangers. In Chicago, modelling for famous penis-collecting artist Cynthia Plaster Caster, he is unable to sustain a respectable erection. Our longsuffering hero, Momus, whose right eye frosted over on his birthday in Atlanta, finds his lust for life somewhat blunted by pain and partial blindness.
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