Kristian Hoffman is known for his exceptional talent with Keys. His light fingers have gained him entrée into the most opulent homes in Hollywood. He also plays a mean piano - yes, even his piano is mean.

And what Kristian had to say after:

The Millionaire has changed the name of the combo from "The Maharajahs of Melody" to "The Millionaire and His Bad Bad Men" which is a relief, because we don't have to wear those ill-fitting gold lurex jiffy-pop styled turbans anymore. We all got to dress in more apt costumes to our characters; I was a trifle outlandish in my '40s gangster outfit complete with revolver and huge garish facial scar lovingly applied by the sensuously tactile fingers of Velvet Hammer make-up expert Melody.

The most eye-opening sequence came when gender-indeterminate 6 foot 6 inch Amazonian Black genius performance artist provocateur Vaginal Créme Davis came out in blackface so black his features were indistinguishable, with big red painted-on clown lips and wee emotive inwardly arched white eyebrows, wearing a top hat, a ratty coat of tails, white gloves, a white ostrich feather tail, a mini-skirt of puffy white chicken feathers, orange tights and over sized chicken feet, warbling in an atonal Magaret Dumont quaver "Pleeez don' beats me massah - aaahs yo' free range coon" to the tune of "Camptown Ladies," while high steppin' in a crazed Stepin Fetchit sashay down the catwalk, waving his white gloves in the air Dixie style. The sold out audience of overdressed swing dance & lounge core revellers, used to less confrontational fare in their retro pubcrawls, were dumbfounded, not knowing if it was correct to laugh, groan or protest, as the 7 foot minstrel chicken bounded up to the wireless microphone and squealed with unrepentant, white toothed glee: "Aaah knowz it's wrong, but it feeeelz so gooood!" Quite a departure from the suddenly quaint and safe cultural touchstones of sleazy burlesque queen strippers and Las Vegas grind Esquivel-damaged selections. The uncomfortable silence afterward was telling, but telling what? I do admire someone who can shake folks out of their decade plundering comfort zone, even if that decade plunderer is me!

My high point of the evening came when I was invited to front the Millionaire's combo to sing the original theme from the Russ Meyer film Faster Pussycat! Kill, Kill! while the three original leads from the film - Tura Satana, Lori Williams, and Haji themselves go go danced wildly on the great stage! I really don't know if there's anyone in the world that can claim that particular distinction - and I was flattered and honored to get to do it! - and sang it pretty darn well, I might add! Faster Pussycat has been essential moviewatching, especially late at night after suitable post-gig binging, since (at least) 1975 - at least at my house.

I remember one particularly memorable evening after a Mumps Whisky-A-Go-Go gig, repairing to Brad Dunning's (then Mumps fan club president and longtime dear friend) apartment to watch it with the Go-Go's roadie Kent Smythe (who always brought his taxidermy fawn drinking with him and ordered it drinks, too!) and associated pals like then-Brian-Tristan-now-Kid-Congo-Powers. I had invited a really good looking romantic prospect down from Santa Barbara to see the gig - and right about the time Tura Satana (in the movie) is slamming her sports car into the retarded muscle hunk's thighs, my date turned to me and whispered "your friends are scary!" and left (at 2:00 a.m.!) to drive back to S.B. without me! It sure was easy to shock people back then!

And of course, we all listened ravenously and religiously to the Cramps' glorious cover of the same song over and over and over. So getting to sing it to the salacious gyrations of those amply endowed tigresses at the incredibly palatial '30s movie theatre "The Mayan" (with the opulent ancient-temple-by-way-of-Hollywood dream factory interior) was truly a gift.