By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
On a steamy Sunday night, I am standing outside a row of blank-faced studios on Exposition Park Avenue. In an inappropriate long-sleeved shirt and jeans, I am waiting with anticipation and failing deodorant for an interview with a new band on the local music scene that may just be the next Dallas phenomenon. Or at least they are aiming to be. And if that doesn't work out, then they always have their thriving daytime jobs of fighting crime and schooling America's next top models.
No, really. They told me so.
Billing themselves as female detectives by day and pop-star trio by night, She-Dick answers the question of what do you get when you mix Charlie's Angels with En Vogue and a not-so-subtle dash of RuPaul. While we're at it, throw in some Dolly Parton, Scissor Sisters, Peaches and even Poison. In the mere eight months since its inception, She-Dick is making a splash on the local scene with shows at Rubber Gloves in Denton, walking the runway at the DIFFA benefit and getting chummy with society darlings at Goss Gallery openings. They also serve as headmistresses of their She-Dick School of Modeling. She-Dick works hard for the money.
I'm meeting the band at Teresa Nasty's studio for a photo shoot, because this is what glamorous pop stars do. Miss Nasty, a petite Asian woman in her 20s with a radiant smile, is waiting for me, and she leads me into her funky hip studio. "Where is the nasty?" I think.
There's surrealism in the air. Bustling peons abound in the spacious area as Nasty is photographing She-Dick producer Hans Handikraft, a man almost as petite as Nasty. Wardrobe-and-hair guy for the night (and friend of the band), Mattamorphosis is helping the ladies in the dressing room.
Handikraft, in sunglasses that almost swallow his head while screaming European snobbery, claims he's from Germany despite a very non-existent accent. A Kraftwerk acolyte, he's the quiet member of the group. He succinctly explains his role in the band, "I make de hott beats, yaaa!" and then clarifies that he is the producer and performance DJ.
Heavy taps of high heels make their way out of the dressing room. Annie Rex, the redhead, opts for some quickie cardio while final preening takes place. Jumping on Nasty's elliptical, heels and all, she goes at it to work off any extra calories she hasn't eaten all week. The top of her 6'1" frame, plus 3-inch heels, hits the ceiling with each upward movement on the machine. In whore-red couture of varying cuts, the trio of tall muscular women, who look like Russian gymnasts going to their first ball, is ready for a close-up.
After striking quintessential diva poses, a wardrobe change is called for, although I'm not expecting it to take place right in front of me. As Candy and Annie remove their tops to reveal—gasp!—fake boobs, we discuss a new song they are writing to the tune of Little Mermaid's "Part of Your World."
"It's called 'Under the Knife'," Candy says proudly. Annie elaborates, "It's about all the different ways women get alterations done on their bodies. Dallas is a pretty big plastic surgery center in the U.S." She says inspiration for the song with lyrics like "Did you say collagen injections? I've had 20" was right in front of them with all their fancy party invitations. "There are so many rich people with plastic surgery scars. What is the fascination with it?" she says before revealing her bandmate's secret. "Gloria's had a nose job and veneers, and we always kid her about that."
That would be Miss Gloria Hole, the Cuban-black-Spaniard-Haitian-hoochie mama. Wearing skirts that make Daisy Dukes look like ball gowns, Gloria is physically intimidating with bulging biceps that I would kill for and quads that I would only maim kittens for. Candy is the most experienced of the three with a less than successful solo run and tour under her belt. Thanks to the tour though, she met what would be her future collaborators in all aspects of her multiple careers.
"I took a short tour to Pensacola and back because that's as far as my station wagon would take me," she recalls.
Gloria chimes in to the moment they met, "I saw her crying on the beach. She was distraught about the tour not going well."
She-Dick's genesis came via background music at the Taco Cabana where Gloria was working. "I actually heard her sing to Mariah Carey, and she could hit that dolphin note," Candy says. "Then we met Annie in Louisiana. She was delirious from not eating after three weeks, ran in front of my car and we nearly killed her. We wrapped her in some sequined gowns, took her to the nearest Motel 6 and gave her some Pedialyte to nurse her back to health. We got her back to a normal weight, and she became part of the musical trio/detection/schoolmasters."
Donning street-savvy attire, Nasty surprises us with an announcement, "This is going to be kind of renegade because I don't have a permit," and we head out to the street for a photo shoot. After I decide who my first call will be from jail, the band goes all Donna Summer "Bad Girls" against a light pole. A cop passes by but is either unknowing about permit allowances or doesn't care. So much for my stint in jail.
It's a bit unusual to watch the future pop icons lugging around photography equipment, but as Gloria says, "We're big girls. We can handle it." And with that, we go for a drink across the street at minc.
It's a dead night at the club as the ladies make their way to a pseudo buffet of what seems to be chips, dips and pecan pie. I only know about the pie as Annie Rex came up with a fairly ample slice that will be probably be gagged up a bit later. As their song, "So Beautiful" says, "One two three four, throw it up and eat some more." With Annie's diet obsession, it is fair to say she and probably the others practice what they preach.
A mild-mannered gent in a plaid shirt, cargo shorts and sandals casts a curious eye toward the ladies and works the subtle angle by asking about the buffet. Candy, in PR mode, talks up the band and gives him a free commemorative lapel pin. He becomes fairly transfixed on Annie. He steps away for a bit only to shyly shuffle back up to Annie on her barstool. It's like watching the nerdy guy in high school trying to get a word in with the head cheerleader. He steps away again, and Annie whispers to us, "He said 'I think you're sexy'—so said the guy in plaid."
As we start to leave, Guy in Plaid invites us to join him and his friends. My curiosity appropriately kicks in high gear. I observe the fun banter between the three guys and dolls hoping they really know what was going on. In the worst come-on attempt of the century, Guy in Plaid goads Annie into an arm-wrestling match. With legs spread and her ovaries "hanging out," Annie braces herself. They are evenly matched, and neither has enough pride to just let it go. Annie loses, but later tells me, "I let him win."
The creepiest moment of the night happens soon after when Guy in Plaid bellows out a "That was hot!" and begins to adjust his sitting position. It looks as if he's getting ready for a camping trip with his newly pitched tent. The ladies humor the men some more; Guy in Plaid gazes lustfully with an open mind, but the night is officially coming to an end.
Walking back to my car, my head swirls in bewilderment. I just spent the night out with three glamazons, who probably were the prettiest girls in the room. And Gloria has the pictures on her phone to prove it. I can't wait to show mom.