What Makes the Cold Hot?
Dixie Magazine (7/12/81)
Story by Bunny Matthews
Photos by Lee Crum
The Cold's lead singer, Barbara Menendez, doesn't care much for subtle dress.
At an appearance one steamy mid-June night in the Grace King High School gym, she was dressed in her typical manner: black tennis shoes, white bobby sox, a broad leather belt that one might find around the waist of Sinbad the Sailor, a clingy top decorated with a button that says "Why Be Normal?" and one of her patented miniskirts, none of which extend more than an inch below her bloomers.
Menendez's stage costume - seductive as it might seem to the merely lecherous - is designed for action. Her on-stage theatrics are the centerpiece of the Cold, the year-and-a-half old band that has become the biggest live music draw New Orleans has seen in decades.
Once the Cold begins one of its high-intensity sets, Menendez seldom stops her wild dancing. Her four male comrades' dress is similarly evocative of the '60s - madras sport coats for guitarists Bert Smith and Kevin Radecker, striped T-shirts for heart-throb bassist Vance DeGeneres and little more than a bathing suit for drummer Chris Luckette, who has the sweatiest job in the ensemble. "When people come to see us play," says Radecker, "they know they're in for invigoration. They know we're going to pump them up!"
Pumping up, invigoration - such terms must seem odd to those accustomed to rock bands so devoid of physical energy that the strain of lifting guitar picks leaves them wasted. But when the Cold performs, energy is of the essence. Energy and - if one dares say it - wholesomeness.
The boys in the band serve the same purpose the Beatles once served for another generation of suburban - and primarily female - teenagers. They are safe and cuddly idols. Someone to daydream about, inspiration for poems composed on pillowcases and names to smear in lipstick across mirrors in the ladies room. Menendez,who was one of these girls herself not too long ago, is a different story. The teenagers idolize her because she is one of them. They know that with the right makeup, the right miniskirt, the right tennis shoes, the right hair-color and the right dance, they could be doing the same. They could be up there in the red and green spotlights, basking in the unanimous admiration. As one teenage girl wrote in a recent fan letter to the band, "When the Cold came into my life, everything changed."
Dixie Magazine (7/12/81)
Story by Bunny Matthews
Photos by Lee Crum
The Cold's lead singer, Barbara Menendez, doesn't care much for subtle dress.
At an appearance one steamy mid-June night in the Grace King High School gym, she was dressed in her typical manner: black tennis shoes, white bobby sox, a broad leather belt that one might find around the waist of Sinbad the Sailor, a clingy top decorated with a button that says "Why Be Normal?" and one of her patented miniskirts, none of which extend more than an inch below her bloomers.
Menendez's stage costume - seductive as it might seem to the merely lecherous - is designed for action. Her on-stage theatrics are the centerpiece of the Cold, the year-and-a-half old band that has become the biggest live music draw New Orleans has seen in decades.
Once the Cold begins one of its high-intensity sets, Menendez seldom stops her wild dancing. Her four male comrades' dress is similarly evocative of the '60s - madras sport coats for guitarists Bert Smith and Kevin Radecker, striped T-shirts for heart-throb bassist Vance DeGeneres and little more than a bathing suit for drummer Chris Luckette, who has the sweatiest job in the ensemble. "When people come to see us play," says Radecker, "they know they're in for invigoration. They know we're going to pump them up!"
Pumping up, invigoration - such terms must seem odd to those accustomed to rock bands so devoid of physical energy that the strain of lifting guitar picks leaves them wasted. But when the Cold performs, energy is of the essence. Energy and - if one dares say it - wholesomeness.
The boys in the band serve the same purpose the Beatles once served for another generation of suburban - and primarily female - teenagers. They are safe and cuddly idols. Someone to daydream about, inspiration for poems composed on pillowcases and names to smear in lipstick across mirrors in the ladies room. Menendez,who was one of these girls herself not too long ago, is a different story. The teenagers idolize her because she is one of them. They know that with the right makeup, the right miniskirt, the right tennis shoes, the right hair-color and the right dance, they could be doing the same. They could be up there in the red and green spotlights, basking in the unanimous admiration. As one teenage girl wrote in a recent fan letter to the band, "When the Cold came into my life, everything changed."
At least twice a month, the Cold performs at a high school or CYO dance - the only places where a large portion of their fans legally can see them. The Grace King recital drew about 600 followers.
Before the concert in the Metairie high school's sprawling gym, the Cold was sequestered in the locker room generally reserved for the football team. Drummer Chris Luckette, who was a right guard on John Curtis High's 1975 State Championship gridiron squad, killed time by lifting weights. Out in the lobby, band manager Bruce Spizer was overseeing the bullish Cold t-shirt and button business. Someone told him that he'd seen a "Deport the Cold" bumper sticker and Spizer joked that he'd have to find out who was responsible so the band could get its rightful share of the profits. Like Elvis Presley's Colonel Tom Parker, there are very few angles that 25-year-old Spizer has not figured out. A practicing lawyer and the holder of a master's degree in finance and accounting, Spizer has helped transform the Cold into a small local music industry and masterminded a game plan to launch it nationally.
In addition to the five band members, there is a promotion agent who has gotten the Cold's records on one New York radio station; a full-time sound man who co-produces the band's records with DeGeneres, and a three-to-four man road crew.
Meanwhile, Spizer has started negotiations with national recording companies and booked a summer tour in the Northeast. "We'll be playing in Boston the first week of August and the second week we'll be in New York at Trax and probably the Ritz, " says Spizer. He hopes to have the band cutting its first album in early fall. Spizer came to the Cold last August and offered to try to get their inaugural single record, "You" / "Three Chord City" on New Orleans radio station playlists. "If I would've known what I was doing, I probably wouldn't have tried it," Spizer says of his ultimately profitable attempt at cracking the unwritten mandate against airplay for local, independently produced bands. Week after week, he spent his lunch hours beating on the doors of radio station music directors and program directors, trying anything to get them to change their policy of playing only national hits.
WTUL, the Tulane University station, played the record first and with little coercion. As for the others, Spizer says, "Finally, it was a case of getting the music directors out to see the band play live. Once they saw the enthusiasm, it changed everything." By last Christmas most of New Orleans rock radio stations had added the record to their playlist. The Cold's audiences doubled over-night. Fans of the record jammed into Uptown barrooms such as Jed's and Jimmy's and a radio-listening high school audience was created for the band.
A year after the release of their first single, the Cold is in the unique position - strange as it may seem in a city famous for its music - of being full-time musicians. Members of the Cold write songs, rehearse, play gigs and sleep late. No one has to get up early to rush to the office. Few other New Orleans musicians, popular or not, are so privileged.
There are other surprising facets as well. While the stereotypical rock band hangs around backstage smoking joints, guzzling beer and seducing groupies, members of the Cold seem satisfied with sipping Gatorade and tuning their guitars. "The way it looks right now," says 27-year-old DeGeneres, "if we don't get an offer for a million-dollar (recording) contract, we can sign with one of the small, independent labels. So we're not really worried. We write what we like to write and play what we like to play and it's a lot of fun. Our music isn't going to change the face of music by any means, but three years from now, maybe it will. For the moment, we're doing what we want to do and it's great."
"I think if we ever got into the radio market nationally, " continues Radecker, "I think we could
compete with that stuff - that's the easiest competition in the world. Right now, people say we're new wave because we remind them of Elvis Costello and Squeeze. That's very heady competition. If you can get into competition with popular music, that's like beating up a little kid. Kenny Rogers, Christopher Cross - we could get up there and beat up all those little kids. If we ever got on national radio, I think we could easily hold our own."
Before the concert in the Metairie high school's sprawling gym, the Cold was sequestered in the locker room generally reserved for the football team. Drummer Chris Luckette, who was a right guard on John Curtis High's 1975 State Championship gridiron squad, killed time by lifting weights. Out in the lobby, band manager Bruce Spizer was overseeing the bullish Cold t-shirt and button business. Someone told him that he'd seen a "Deport the Cold" bumper sticker and Spizer joked that he'd have to find out who was responsible so the band could get its rightful share of the profits. Like Elvis Presley's Colonel Tom Parker, there are very few angles that 25-year-old Spizer has not figured out. A practicing lawyer and the holder of a master's degree in finance and accounting, Spizer has helped transform the Cold into a small local music industry and masterminded a game plan to launch it nationally.
In addition to the five band members, there is a promotion agent who has gotten the Cold's records on one New York radio station; a full-time sound man who co-produces the band's records with DeGeneres, and a three-to-four man road crew.
Meanwhile, Spizer has started negotiations with national recording companies and booked a summer tour in the Northeast. "We'll be playing in Boston the first week of August and the second week we'll be in New York at Trax and probably the Ritz, " says Spizer. He hopes to have the band cutting its first album in early fall. Spizer came to the Cold last August and offered to try to get their inaugural single record, "You" / "Three Chord City" on New Orleans radio station playlists. "If I would've known what I was doing, I probably wouldn't have tried it," Spizer says of his ultimately profitable attempt at cracking the unwritten mandate against airplay for local, independently produced bands. Week after week, he spent his lunch hours beating on the doors of radio station music directors and program directors, trying anything to get them to change their policy of playing only national hits.
WTUL, the Tulane University station, played the record first and with little coercion. As for the others, Spizer says, "Finally, it was a case of getting the music directors out to see the band play live. Once they saw the enthusiasm, it changed everything." By last Christmas most of New Orleans rock radio stations had added the record to their playlist. The Cold's audiences doubled over-night. Fans of the record jammed into Uptown barrooms such as Jed's and Jimmy's and a radio-listening high school audience was created for the band.
A year after the release of their first single, the Cold is in the unique position - strange as it may seem in a city famous for its music - of being full-time musicians. Members of the Cold write songs, rehearse, play gigs and sleep late. No one has to get up early to rush to the office. Few other New Orleans musicians, popular or not, are so privileged.
There are other surprising facets as well. While the stereotypical rock band hangs around backstage smoking joints, guzzling beer and seducing groupies, members of the Cold seem satisfied with sipping Gatorade and tuning their guitars. "The way it looks right now," says 27-year-old DeGeneres, "if we don't get an offer for a million-dollar (recording) contract, we can sign with one of the small, independent labels. So we're not really worried. We write what we like to write and play what we like to play and it's a lot of fun. Our music isn't going to change the face of music by any means, but three years from now, maybe it will. For the moment, we're doing what we want to do and it's great."
"I think if we ever got into the radio market nationally, " continues Radecker, "I think we could
compete with that stuff - that's the easiest competition in the world. Right now, people say we're new wave because we remind them of Elvis Costello and Squeeze. That's very heady competition. If you can get into competition with popular music, that's like beating up a little kid. Kenny Rogers, Christopher Cross - we could get up there and beat up all those little kids. If we ever got on national radio, I think we could easily hold our own."
"Here, here" adds Smith, who at 28 is the oldest Cold-ite. "How could Christopher Cross possibly be the most popular singer in America?" Smith was once the editor of the Driftwood, the University of New Orleans newspaper. Later he was editor of the St. Bernard Guide. Into his UNO office one morning strolled Kevin Radecker, who wanted to write music reviews. It was a meeting as fateful in its way as the first handshake between John Lennon and Paul McCartney at that Liverpool church social many years ago.
"Bert and I started the band," says Radecker. "Like everyone else in the city, we played acoustic guitars in the living room and we said, 'One day, we'll have to get a band together and we'll open for the Normals. That'll be fun and we'll play in front of several hundred people.' This was in spring of 1979." Smith and Radecker's fantasy came at a time when a renaissance of garage bands took hold in Europe and the United States. Originally inspired by punk bands like the Sex
Pistols and Siouxsie and the Banshees, these grassroots
groups were a reaction against the doldrums that infested commercial rock music at the time.
"When you start a band, nobody has any faith in you," says Radecker. "Barbara would hang around practice sessions
and sing 'Downtown' and then she left for New York and a career change. Vance played drums for a while. We eventually got this guy Ronnie Blanchard on drums - very much from the heavy metal school of drumming. And we got 'Rockin' Rick' Connick (nephew of District Attorney Harry Connick) on bass."
Radecker and Smith named their fledgling combo Totally Cold as a spoof on a mild-mannered Olivia Newton-John album called "Totally Hot." If Newton-John was so hot, Radecker and Smith said they wanted to be as cold as possible. Above all else, they were diehard fans of the Normals, New
Orleans' first popular punk band. There was scarcely a Normals gig that Radecker and Smith missed. Chris Luckette was the Normals' drummer.
Two years ago, Totally Cold made its debut and Radecker and Smith realized their dream. They opened for the Normals at a French Quarter club near Bourbon Street. The band was booked for two nights, but, according to Smith, the club went out of business without warning after the first performance. Totally Cold's premiere was not quite the stuff of showbiz legend. "Our first job cost us $17, too, because Ronnie busted Chris' drumhead," recalls Smith. "We didn't get paid anything."
Eventually, the Normals began paying Totally Cold $50 a night, money that the band saved and used to buy their first public address system, often the first step towards independence from being just another opening act. In the meantime, Vance DeGeneres, who had made a name for himself as one of the creators of the "Mr. Bill Show" on "Saturday Night Live" and had later joined the Marines, was back in New Orleans.
While working on "Saturday Night Live," DeGeneres lived in a one-room West Side apartment with two roommates, a living arrangement that he said was intolerable. It was so intolerable that he returned to his hometown with another scheme - a television comedy called "Cuisine Deluxe." Menendez and Radecker were among the cast members. "We got half of it taped at Loyola's video studio one night and then there was a power blackout," says DeGeneres. "The next day, they tore up the studio for the summer. I went into a depression for two weeks and laid in bed. When I came out of my depression, I joined the Marine Corps. The Marines were not like they told me it was going to be." DeGeneres said he was promised training as an intelligence officer but wound up doing radio recruitment spots. After a year and seven months, DeGeneres said he'd had enough of military life and managed to get out with an honorable discharge and the rank of corporal.
Home again, he was dragged along to Normals gigs by the ever-enthusiastic Radecker. Menendez, then 19 years old and a recent graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy, was in Manhattan studying acting, dancing and singing and working as a waitress. And Luckette and the Normals, figuring they'd gone as far as they could in New Orleans, moved to New York and a strapped budget that dictated French fried potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Luckette was not enthusiastic about this new development in his drumming career.
Back in New Orleans, Radecker and Smith were struggling to keep Totally Cold together and DeGeneres was calling Menendez asking her to quit her job at a Chock full o' Nuts restaurant and join him, Radecker and Smith in a new band. "We heard a rumor that Chris was back in New Orleans and working construction jobs," says Radecker. "I thought Chris was God," says Menendez. "We were all afraid to call," says Radecker. "I waited about three or four
days. He came to a practice session and was very uncommittal. Our first gigs with the present lineup were in January of 1980. The rest, I suppose, is history."
The latest Cold repertoire consists of 61 songs, including 35 original compositions by members of the band. The originals include the radio hits "You" and "Mesmerized," both capable, Radecker assures, of destroying practically anything else on the airwaves. Some of the songs barely last a minute. None of them hangs about for more than three. Teen-age minds wander fast, but the Cold - the true Sorcerer's Apprentices - make them pay attention like no Civics teacher ever could.
At Grace King's gym, those who were unable to lip-synch every word of every song were in the obvious minority. The fans' devotion amazes the band. Kevin Radecker jokingly threatens that the Cold might begin experimenting with post-hypnotic suggestions such as "Don't eat fish on Tuesdays." Already, throngs of New Orleans teen-agers browse through thrift store racks searching for genuine madras jackets from the '60s so they might look like Cold-clones. And among teen-age girls in New Orleans, the Barbara Menendez look is competing with Lady Diana Spencer's.
Can the entire unsuspecting world be far behind? What happens if the Cold fails to clobber Christopher Cross and bring back to their birthplace the lost glories of hit record-making? "I'll probably get depressed and join the Coast Guard," DeGeneres predicts."And I'll join the WAVES," Menendez adds. That is, if they allow black leather miniskirts and need a very good dance instructor.
"Bert and I started the band," says Radecker. "Like everyone else in the city, we played acoustic guitars in the living room and we said, 'One day, we'll have to get a band together and we'll open for the Normals. That'll be fun and we'll play in front of several hundred people.' This was in spring of 1979." Smith and Radecker's fantasy came at a time when a renaissance of garage bands took hold in Europe and the United States. Originally inspired by punk bands like the Sex
Pistols and Siouxsie and the Banshees, these grassroots
groups were a reaction against the doldrums that infested commercial rock music at the time.
"When you start a band, nobody has any faith in you," says Radecker. "Barbara would hang around practice sessions
and sing 'Downtown' and then she left for New York and a career change. Vance played drums for a while. We eventually got this guy Ronnie Blanchard on drums - very much from the heavy metal school of drumming. And we got 'Rockin' Rick' Connick (nephew of District Attorney Harry Connick) on bass."
Radecker and Smith named their fledgling combo Totally Cold as a spoof on a mild-mannered Olivia Newton-John album called "Totally Hot." If Newton-John was so hot, Radecker and Smith said they wanted to be as cold as possible. Above all else, they were diehard fans of the Normals, New
Orleans' first popular punk band. There was scarcely a Normals gig that Radecker and Smith missed. Chris Luckette was the Normals' drummer.
Two years ago, Totally Cold made its debut and Radecker and Smith realized their dream. They opened for the Normals at a French Quarter club near Bourbon Street. The band was booked for two nights, but, according to Smith, the club went out of business without warning after the first performance. Totally Cold's premiere was not quite the stuff of showbiz legend. "Our first job cost us $17, too, because Ronnie busted Chris' drumhead," recalls Smith. "We didn't get paid anything."
Eventually, the Normals began paying Totally Cold $50 a night, money that the band saved and used to buy their first public address system, often the first step towards independence from being just another opening act. In the meantime, Vance DeGeneres, who had made a name for himself as one of the creators of the "Mr. Bill Show" on "Saturday Night Live" and had later joined the Marines, was back in New Orleans.
While working on "Saturday Night Live," DeGeneres lived in a one-room West Side apartment with two roommates, a living arrangement that he said was intolerable. It was so intolerable that he returned to his hometown with another scheme - a television comedy called "Cuisine Deluxe." Menendez and Radecker were among the cast members. "We got half of it taped at Loyola's video studio one night and then there was a power blackout," says DeGeneres. "The next day, they tore up the studio for the summer. I went into a depression for two weeks and laid in bed. When I came out of my depression, I joined the Marine Corps. The Marines were not like they told me it was going to be." DeGeneres said he was promised training as an intelligence officer but wound up doing radio recruitment spots. After a year and seven months, DeGeneres said he'd had enough of military life and managed to get out with an honorable discharge and the rank of corporal.
Home again, he was dragged along to Normals gigs by the ever-enthusiastic Radecker. Menendez, then 19 years old and a recent graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy, was in Manhattan studying acting, dancing and singing and working as a waitress. And Luckette and the Normals, figuring they'd gone as far as they could in New Orleans, moved to New York and a strapped budget that dictated French fried potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Luckette was not enthusiastic about this new development in his drumming career.
Back in New Orleans, Radecker and Smith were struggling to keep Totally Cold together and DeGeneres was calling Menendez asking her to quit her job at a Chock full o' Nuts restaurant and join him, Radecker and Smith in a new band. "We heard a rumor that Chris was back in New Orleans and working construction jobs," says Radecker. "I thought Chris was God," says Menendez. "We were all afraid to call," says Radecker. "I waited about three or four
days. He came to a practice session and was very uncommittal. Our first gigs with the present lineup were in January of 1980. The rest, I suppose, is history."
The latest Cold repertoire consists of 61 songs, including 35 original compositions by members of the band. The originals include the radio hits "You" and "Mesmerized," both capable, Radecker assures, of destroying practically anything else on the airwaves. Some of the songs barely last a minute. None of them hangs about for more than three. Teen-age minds wander fast, but the Cold - the true Sorcerer's Apprentices - make them pay attention like no Civics teacher ever could.
At Grace King's gym, those who were unable to lip-synch every word of every song were in the obvious minority. The fans' devotion amazes the band. Kevin Radecker jokingly threatens that the Cold might begin experimenting with post-hypnotic suggestions such as "Don't eat fish on Tuesdays." Already, throngs of New Orleans teen-agers browse through thrift store racks searching for genuine madras jackets from the '60s so they might look like Cold-clones. And among teen-age girls in New Orleans, the Barbara Menendez look is competing with Lady Diana Spencer's.
Can the entire unsuspecting world be far behind? What happens if the Cold fails to clobber Christopher Cross and bring back to their birthplace the lost glories of hit record-making? "I'll probably get depressed and join the Coast Guard," DeGeneres predicts."And I'll join the WAVES," Menendez adds. That is, if they allow black leather miniskirts and need a very good dance instructor.
