The Goonies and Stand by Me are two of my favorite films from childhood. The Lost Boys is right up there as well. Corey Feldman was the coolest kid I never knew in those formative years. But then Gleaming the Cube happened. Sure, it was an awful movie, but you couldn’t convince me of that when I was twelve years old. By the time I became a teenager, Christian Slater’s characters in Heathers and Pump Up the Volume became my new definition of cool, and I lost track of Corey. I missed it when he reappeared as a reality tv personality. I didn’t read his book or hear the stories of abuse he suffered at the hands of the Hollywood elite. I missed his series with Corey Haim, and his time at the Playboy Mansion, and the creation of Corey’s Angels. I even missed that infamous Today Show performance last year. Corey Feldman was kept forever young, as Clark Devereaux and Teddy Duchamp, in those memories of my youth. So, you can imagine my surprise when I first heard Angelic 2 the Core. Labeled by many as “the worst album of 2016”, the cover artwork itself made it inescapable. What I found inside left me completely bewildered. Where did Corey go wrong? Was he being serious? Was the whole thing a joke? What in the hell was happening?
My curiosity got the best of me when I saw the flyer for the upcoming tour. Corey Feldman, looking like Michael Jackson impersonating a magician, was surrounded by large-busted, lingerie-clad women with feathered halos. I was trying to figure out how the steampunk machinery factored in with the already confusing imagery when something even more bizarre caught my eye: the show was being held at the Buffalo Rose in downtown Golden. Tickets were purchased before I could pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t having some kind of fucked up dream. When I convinced myself this was real life, I got to work on recruitment. Convincing people to go to Red Rocks twice a week during summer is one thing; convincing people to go see a former child actor who seems as deranged as Charlie Sheen during his #winning #tigerblood years is something else altogether.
June 23rd, 2017. Golden, Colorado. 30 years after The Lost Boys hit theaters. There is a sizable crowd hanging around near the buffalo statue in front of a historic saloon. A large, welcoming sign hangs over the otherwise quiet street. “Howdy Folks! Welcome to Golden. Where the West Lives.” There is much smaller sign in front of the bar. This one is written in chalk. “Cory Feldman & The Angels” Corey’s name is spelled incorrectly, but no one seems to notice. The bar is packed with people and there is a large tour bus parked around the corner. My powers of persuasion mean I am not alone on this strange evening in small town America. I ask a group of women if we can borrow a few of their unoccupied stools so my companions and I have a place to sit. They oblige because their friends are already inside the adjacent venue.
“Are you going to the show?” they ask me. “Of course!” I reply. “Are you really a fan, or…” they hesitate. “Not of his music,” I laugh “do you think anyone here is a serious fan?” “Oh yeah,” they counter, “there are quite a few…maybe 25% or so.”
I look around the room, not knowing what I am looking for exactly, but immediately recognize the true fans. Most of them are wearing black. Some look almost goth. Heavy make-up, random hair color, gender agnostic. It’s at that point I decide to give this whole experience the benefit of the doubt. Who am I to shit on someone else’s entertainment? Granted, I doubt Corey Feldman could sell enough tickets to tour and perform for the 25% if the other 75% didn’t buy tickets for less honorable reasons, but I don’t think that gives me an excuse to be a snob about it.
A few drinks deep, we find our way into the venue around 10:00pm. The place is hardly close to sold-out, but is reasonably packed as we grab a round of beers (and shots) before making our way to the front of the stage. Having missed the two local openers, I am assuming we’ll catch an hour-long performance and be back at the bar reliving the whole thing in no time at all. Evidently, Corey takes this music stuff a lot more seriously than his albums might suggest, because we are immediately threatened with the promise of a two-hour set.
Really? 2 hours? Ok, I’m game. Let’s do this!
The lights go down and images of Corey’s films are projected onto a makeshift screen. Encouraging words of support from his fans and peers in the industry read like a résumé in front of the anxious audience as they start chanting “Cor-ey! Cor-ey! Cor-ey!” The angels appear first. They are in white lingerie, with white instruments, white halos, and more exposed white flesh than a Spring Break video. Corey comes out with his back to the crowd, in black leather from head to toe, with a fedora and dance moves straight out of “Billie Jean”. It is a spectacle to say the least, but it sounds awful. The speakers are blown out; hissing and popping and crackling like a campfire. We are close enough to see his mouth is moving to the words of “Ascension Millennium”, but all we hear is noise. It gets slightly better for the next couple songs, but when one of them is called “Duh!”, sonic perfection isn’t a major concern.
See more at http://ilistensoyoudonthaveto.com/2017/06/26/corey-feldman-and-the-angels-buffalo-rose-06-23-17/
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