By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
It's tamer than it sounds. The ambisexual Giselle of the PHX still has her jeans on, and to keep it real, after 10:30 p.m. at Barcelona on a Friday or Saturday eve, everyone in the house gets extra-friendly. Situated at 15440 Greenway-Hayden Loop, this modern-lookin' Spanish castle starts off as an old-school supper club earlier in the evening, the sort of place your 'rents would go for some surf-n-turf and a bottle of fine vino while they listen to the classic R&B sounds of this live, loungy house act Angelo and Veronica (www.barcelonadining.com). Then after 10 p.m., someone pushes a button, the dance floor is cleared of tables, video projection screens descend and all the hot twenty- and thirtysomethings begin streaming in, preparing for the high-energy, Vegas-like club scene that shifts into overdrive once the bootylicious, hip-hop house band Zowie Bowie hits the stage.
But back to the pearly whites in the Jettster's britches. They belong to Chad, a Boston fireman, who's in Scottsdale visiting his childhood friend Randolph, a baller and AZ transplant who makes mega-bucks as a chemical engineer and computer programmer. Hell, Sir Randolph even bought the Jettster and me Jäger bombers! Now that's player-ism. And since my momma taught me how to share, and since both cats had been admiring the J-girl's onion, I decide to let Chad chomp on the Jettster's rump. It's the least a pimp can do.
I offer the same to Randolph, but he takes a pass due to his marital status.
"My wife makes six figures," Rudolph tells us. "So I might look, but I don't play."
"Smart fella," I intone. "So why are you out here in the desert now, mon?"
"There are a lot of opportunities in Arizona, whether it's the housing market or jobs," Randolph relates. "I'm in the IT field, and it's very good for that here. I wish I'd moved two years ago. I love it out here."
That's when Chad comes up for air. "Is mine the first you've bitten tonight?" Jett wonders.
"The first," chuckles Chad. "But hopefully not the last."
"Be honest, Chad, it tastes like KFC, right?" I ask.
"Shut up, Kreme," screeches Jett, smackin' me on the side of my belly. "You know it tastes like filet mignon!"
"Hey, I ain't never been down there, so don't ask for no critiques," I spit. "Anyway, Chad, Randolph tells me you just touched down in Phoenix today. So what do you think?"
"Phoenix and Scottsdale are fucking hot!" exclaims Chad. "Literally. When I got on the plane this morning, it was 49 degrees. When I got off the plane with my sweatshirt still on, it was 100. But there are also beautiful ladies, strong drinks and good people."
We leave Chad and Randolph behind while we head for the stage and the circular dance floor before it, which is packed and grindin' in anticipation of Zowie Bowie, the glitzy, buff 'n' bronzed act made up of frontman Chris Phillips, his partner and fiancée Marley Taylor, and their five-piece backup band. ("Zowie Bowie" is also Phillips' stage name.) Taylor's got a slammin' bod that leaves Jessica Simpson's in the dust, and Phillips is a wild man on stage, like a skinny Mike Meyers with sunglasses and spiked white hair. They cover every hot hip-hop track and then some, including hits from Mike Jones, Snoop, 50 Cent, Fat Joe and Ludacris. And they're known for getting all the dime-pieces up on stage with them to sashay as they perform.
The J-unit and I ease up on the pair before the performance for a little confab. They're chillin' like a 21st-century Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, with Taylor rockin' a rhinestone-encrusted mic in one hand while Phillips partakes of a jumbo glass of Crown Royal. Jett's nearly speechless when confronted with Taylor's, um, glandular excess. Check it out for yourself at www.zowiebowie.com.
"Omigod, you are so awesome!" drools the Jettster, examining Taylor as if she's about to whip out a stethoscope. "Your belly is so toned. You must work out all the time."
"Thanks. It's because of our career, being onstage constantly," Marley admits. "So we do a lot of cardio, and everything else."
"How long have you guys been an item?" I ask, trying to pry the J-girl off Taylor.
"Four years," replies Taylor, "That was before the show started, which was about three and a half years ago, the same time we started playing Barcelona."
"So tell me, Chris, how did you end up with the hottest chick in the club?" I wonder.
"Very small penis, and no money," joshes Phillips. "I actually think she took pity on me. She's a very charitable woman. When we met each other, we were both married to other people. We got divorces, moved in with each other, and haven't been apart for more two hours in the last four years.