The Pretty Girls

Young Chauncey got himself all bent sideways, waking up on some stranger’s couch with an empty fifth of cheap-ass Kessler’s under his arm and a purring silver tabby on his face. After lurching to a nearby bathroom to puke, he noticed the brunette barfly wig on his head that framed a visage smeared with make-up and dried vomit, which splattered onto a ripped-up Jobriath T-shirt he found himself wearing. Whoa. Some costume party. His head pounding, he made his way to a nearby stereo; he need to know the name behind the big noise reverberating through his aching head: the Stones? Raw Power-era Stooges? The Sweet? Nope. Finally, he opened the CD player, and a blue disc popped out: The Pretty Girls. He pushed it back in, hit “play” and cranked the volume. By the careening maelstrom of track three, “Marianne,” he knew that football season would never be the same. Ergo, this Sacramento band rocks.