Photograph by Marlee Valencia

Rogues of Chaos - some wear fancy underwear.

“If I need one of those, either the spawn of Satan has been born or there’s a dead fucking doctor.” That’s what I tell the dude who is checking out the vending machine at The Kensington Club with me. Rogues of Chaos, Go Scarlet, and WeAreJackStrong are playing tonight. Rogues are doing what seems like the world’s longest sound check, but the vending machine is distracting me, so I don’t mind. It’s a unique electronic dispensing apparatus that contains a vibrating tongue (artificial, I hope), a mystery sex toy, a troll doll hand painted with Ace Frehley’s KISS makeup, and a pregnancy test. It’s this last that draws my comment about medical-related violence, given my vasectomy ages ago.

The machine also contains postcards from local artists and a plain brown paper bag labeled “Ken’s Mystery.” I slide in my debit card to take a chance on the mystery, and am rewarded with purple heart-shaped glasses and a set of truth or dare cards. Everyone’s jealous of my glasses. I know this because I ask them and they confirm my suspicions. One of the truth or dare cards challenges the player to hump the vending machine. Apropos of the times we live in, it states that the machine has given consent.

One couple that covets my eyewear is friends with Go Scarlet, a band from North County. The female half of the duo tells me this is a rare night out for them because of the kids, and I feel another happy jolt about the operation that left me shooting blanks. Go Scarlet kicks into a set unapologetically reminiscent of ‘90s alternative that both features both originals and covers such as “Kids In America” by Kim Wilde. The crowd is less sparse than I expected for a Thursday night — and more responsive, dancing and singing along to the songs they know. The band themselves shed any trepidation and ride a wave of energy that grows with every note, bassist Arlina Hoeschen’s ninja fingers locked in time with drummer T.K.O., and keyboardist Tamara Monasterio providing texture.

The couple introduces me to singer-guitarist Heather Moonflower, and I conduct interviews outside as Rogues of Chaos sets up. Armed with my mystery bag, I offer the choice of wearing the glasses (which everyone wants) or playing truth or dare. Those who draw the Truth card have to tell me what kind of underwear they are wearing, and Rogues keyboardist Cristina Smith goes into great detail. Only bass player Arlina Hoeschen opts for the cards, and draws one daring her to tell someone they are attractive. She goes above and beyond, attempting to kiss her friend, who declines with a shriek due to the threat of lipstick stains on her face. (Stains like the kind she just wiped off her beer, the one that Hoeschen took a swig from immediately after leaving the stage.) Fuzzy the doorman watches the scene, and it’s hard to pin down his expression. The man has worked multiple venues in San Diego, including The North Park Observatory, and has probably seen everything. 

Three men seated outside at a table talk about set times. Seems an odd thing to be discussing, until I find out they comprise WeAreJackStrong and are expected to go on at eleven. With Rogues of Chaos just getting started after 10 pm, that seems unlikely. I order a diet soda from the bar and the bartender takes a minute to locate the beverage, because she lost her glasses. I offer her my vending machine pair and she declines, saying something about a prescription.

The seven members of Rogues of Chaos are led by guitarist Julian Jerry Flack (formerly of Cardiac Kidz), who writes the songs. Flack is a self-professed control freak, a veteran musician who knows what sound he wants and how to get it. The results are undeniable: their singles “Crazy For You” and “I Believe” broke the 10,000 play mark, and the live performance is tight, clear, and loud, despite all the moving parts. The dance floor is being used for just that and a woman attempts to partner up with me, but Spike don’t dance.

Outside, WeAreJackStrong seems resigned to a late start. The band won’t go on until after midnight, so I make plans to see them in September, and to get a proper interview for Gonzo. I offer a round of Truth or Dare, using the cards in a last bid for vending machine action, but it doesn’t get drawn and I feel a little guilty. The machine provided me with a road map and an icebreaker. I’ve heard cool music, met fun people, learned the truth about what underwear they are wearing and scored some bitchin’ glasses. But the machine, the catalyst of all that revelry, remains unhumped.