Music In Review: Frank Moore At The Il Corral

by Tara Rubano

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One of the DT&R editors mulls her newfound sense of morality after stumbling into the sordid underground of LA's famed nude paraplegic orgy scene.

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I don’t consider myself a conservative person, not by a long-shot. I casually reference donkey-sex in most conversations, I’ve watched a man get fucked by a horse, I’ve seen a girl shoot out liquid feces into her own mouth (both via the Internet) and I could talk about farts, poop and vaginal fluids for days. I am not a prude, a Christian nor a Republican, but recently, I seriously questioned my morals; did I actually have them?

In Hollywood, a few blocks from Paramount Studios, nestled in a brick building with no name, lies the Il Corral. It’s where “noise is the new punk rock” and they mean it. The place itself reminds me of the basement dwelling in Silence of the Lambs, the one where Buffalo Bill shoves his penis in between his legs. The bathroom smells like it hasn’t been cleaned since 1973, you have to BYOB and although they do have an interesting library collection, it basically reminds me of a basement party in high school. It also doubles as a loft, though where they shower, I don't know.

The first time I was there, I paid $5 to hear what can only be described as Freddy Krueger's fingers scratching on scrap metal. After surveying others who were in attendance, I saw a paraplegic-looking guy in a wheelchair, drooling, moaning and perusing his surroundings with his mouth agape and askew, and his teeth scattered about. He scared me, not because he was handicapped, but because I felt bad for him. Maybe it was because he couldn’t speak or move on his own, or maybe it was because he looked like hell; either way, he freaked me out. I decided that getting out of there was more appealing then the guilt I felt for being able to walk, so I left early.

I returned to the Il Corral about a year later to help my boyfriend perform. We saw some interesting music, made some ourselves, and had a jolly old time. I was beginning to think that my previous judgment of the place was ill conceived.

My boyfriend performed again at the Il Corral a few months later. As we walked in I checked out the room to see if any of our friends were there. As I did this, I saw the paraplegic-looking guy again, accompanied by two females, one older, 50s’ish, the other probably in her 30s, both with a hippie edge. “I guess he really digs this place, or his pals just wanted to give him a night out,” I thought. I decided that he didn’t scare me, and that I was open-minded towards cripples, even if they made me feel weird.

We watched the first act, which consisted of a nerdy, but cute, indie rocker, belting out covers such as “Crazy In Love” by Beyonce, “Born To Run” by The Boss and various other ditties that might have sounded gay and clubby when done by the originator, but performed by him they oozed with longing sadness.

After he finished his set, my boyfriend went. He first introduced himself and his intentions in song, and then afterwards invited us to sit down with him on the ground and under the little tent he created. I sat near him, and as I did, I saw that the paraplegic-guy was being wheeled in my direction by the elder of his caretakers. I couldn’t tell if they were family members or what. I decided that maybe the older woman was his wife/girlfriend and the other their daughter. But they had a symbiotic closeness that was starting to give off some weird vibes. Once we crawled closer, we heard ambient sounds reminiscent of camping. We blew bubbles under the darkness illuminated with black light, and felt at one with the earth.

I thought about how cool the Il Corral was as a venue, how it seemed to attract off-kilter artists, some who smelt like they rolled in a pile of discarded clothes found at Woodstock, some who smelt like they lived in a urinal. Nevertheless, it was different and I appreciated that.

After my boyfriend’s set, the older of the paraplegic’s hippy lady friend’s came up to him and asked him if he’d like to perform with Frank and his band. Justin – my boyfriend – the always accommodating experimental artist that he is, happily obliged. When I inquired who Frank was, it turned out that he’s the paraplegic. I thought how cool it was that he performs, how provocative that he expresses himself through his handicap, and even more, how nice of the Il Corral to house him. I was actually quite excited to see his performance.

Before Frank was set to go, another noise band went, and though they were interesting, I couldn’t wait to see Frank. “What will he do?”, “Can he actually sing or will he just moan?” I was bouncing in my seat eager to get on with the show.

The noise band finished and Frank’s crew began to set up their instruments. I was sitting in the second-to-front row with my friend Kim. We watched them plug in amps, set up drums, guitars and a projector. As they were doing this I noticed that Frank was now shirtless. He wasn’t before, which I found oddly interesting, but after seeing one of his band members sans shirt, with purple pants and a cape, I figured that this was their uniform.

Frank was wheeled up into position, about five feet from Kim and me. His shirtless body was covered in a blanket that was partially opened in the front, right by his crotch area. He was flailing about and as he did this I caught a small glimpse of what was possibly underneath the blanket: nothing. “Do you think he’s naked under there?” I asked Kim and no sooner had the words escaped my mouth when one of his flailing arms brushed against the blanket causing the opening to spread, revealing his penis. “Oh my God,” we said in unison. We were a stone’s throw from this paraplegic’s shriveled, probably numb, wiener.

“I hope someone sees this from his entourage and covers him up,” I said, but no one did. We began wondering what kind of fucking show this was and what part Justin was going to play. I started to get nervous and feel clammy, especially since no matter where I looked I couldn’t help but be brought back to this freak’s cock.

Once the band had fully assembled, the projector focused on Frank’s nude, distorted, incredibly bloated, body. I swear to God, either he just ate a small child, or he had what looked like the most swollen colon in the world. His older female companion placed a headset on him with the mic positioned at his mouth. The lights dimmed and he began to sing.

I use the term sing lightly, for it was really just a round of wails, groans and moans accompanied by spittle. While he did this, the projector projected slides containing various degrees of nudity and what looked like orgies, but it was hard to tell since Frank’s body was the screen. Basically you saw a tit here and there and some bush.

After about five minutes of this, the band joined in. They sounded like a mix of hippy jam band and some lame Grateful Dead “space” rip-off. At times it was good, at others it was not. I looked around the room to find Justin to see what he thought of this and as I did, I noticed that Frank’s two lady friends were standing right in front of Justin, completely nude, cuddling with each other and swaying to Frank’s music.

I turned to Kim and mumbled something about this but she didn’t hear me. After a few more minutes the naked chick duo began to walk towards the stage, and as they caught Kim’s peripheral vision, she exclaimed “Oh Jesus!!” and turned to me. I nodded in equal repulsion. They positioned themselves next to Frank and began to meow whilst groping each other.

I was about to snap at this point. If there are two naked chicks gyrating on stage, touching and rubbing each other while meowing, you’d think it would be hot right? I like lesbians as much as the next, but imagine that these two women were your mother and her sister, or perhaps your 5th grade teacher and the homeless crazy lady in your town. Basically imagine two completely ugly saggy pot-marked hippies and a fat, bloated cripple drooling. Does this sound enticing? Hell-fucking-no, it sounds like what split pea soup would look like after being violently squirted out of your ass: fucking disgusting.

After a few more minutes of harrowing meows and moans, the younger pot-marked hippy sat on Frank’s lap while the older matriarch of the group sat on her, all while gyrating in unison. I guess they're not related, but who the hell knows. At this point I had enough and got up. I went to the back of the room where our other friends were sitting. We were all stupefied silent for a few beats until we shared a “What the fuck did we just sit through?” moment.

Eventually any of our friends who were left in the main room fled towards us in the back. Justin, deciding that in no way did he want to participate, had to go behind the band and retrieve his stuff while accidentally kicking over the drummer’s beer. I felt defeated. I invested well over twenty minutes in their act and thought I'd make it to the end, but there seemed to be no end in sight, or no end that I was interested in witnessing. These fuckers forced me to leave. Never had I felt offended by someone’s art. But that night I found that even I have a line.

I haven’t been back to the Il Corral since. I did however schedule an "intensive" with Frank for the Introduction to Cherotic Magic, whatever the fuck that means. I may have found that I do possess morals but I’m not opposed to kicking them down a notch. Why do you think I became a crackwhore?

To find out more about Frank go here. You've been warned.

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Tara Rubano is the co-editor of Duct Tape & Rouge, and no, she is not stuffing her bra with watermelons. She's stuffing them with mammaries.