He hardly looks like this anymore.

I blame myself. Buster Poindexter, first with his Banshees of Blue, now with his Spanish Rocket Ship Band, have played at the Bottom Line hundreds of times. It's something like every six weeks, perhaps even less. The act is one based more on fun and good cheer than sterling song-craft. I finally break down and buy a ticket for the Saturday over Memorial Day weekend. The place, which I'm told is normally a sizzlin' bacchanal of wise-ass musical professionalism, was like a garden party. Buster needs his audience, or else the whole endeavor, which is meant to be stupid, just comes off sad.

Further evidence I wasn't thinking. I go with my buddy Matt to see Croupier, which sucked, by the way, and then realized we had four and a half hours to meet the Roz and his gal til the show started. We went to the Scratcher and drank Brooklyn Weissebeer and got ripped. And when Matt and I get ripped, it's always the same thing. We start screaming about the Death of Cinema. Matt and I both went to NYU and have a lot of overlapping aesthetic manifestos. We are both fond of Herzog and the Coens and Truffaut and think Buffalo 66 was the best film of the past five years.

The key time to cut Matt and me off is when we start sentences with "I need to see . . ." Example: "I need to see films with real characters facing real issues!" I swear, next time you see us pulling this crap, come up behind us and remind us that what we really need are girlfriends.

Anyway, we realize that the food is too expensive and shitty at the Bottom Line, so it may make sense to grab some grub in advance. We make our way to East 6th St for Indian. Matt admits that whenever he goes for Indian he never knows what to get, so I suggest the lamb curry vindaloo, which is hunks of lamb is spicy-ass-sauce. I know which of the myriad places on 6th gets you your best bang for buck, so we're ordering mountains of food for a grand total of twenty five dollars. We eat and we eat this incredibly spicy food. My eyes are tearing and snots are rolling down my face, but I just don't care 'cause the food is so good.

By the time we're done, I can hardly move. I am stuffed to the gills, my mouth and lips are on fire, and, worst of all, I am 100 percent sober. The low-lighting and warm Christmas decorations are goading me to sleep. But we can't sleep. We bought our tickets in advance.

I'm sure that once the lights dim, I will get my second wind. It doesn't happen. As the lights dim, I realize the place is about one fourth full (yeah--wasn't Broadway surprisingly empty for 10 pm on a Saturday???)

The band gets on stage, to the tune of "Little Spanish Flea." There's, like, fifteen guys up there, congas, shakers, black back-up singers and the Uptown Horns. Most look like burnt out session musicians. Finally, Buster comes out. Buster, nee David Johansen, does not look like he did when the "Hot Hot Hot" video came out. In a flimsy white linen jacket, open to reveal his wifebeater, he's looking like Mick Jagger first thing in the morning after a hard night of coke and ass-fucking. He's looking worse than his cabbie persona from the film Scrooged. As Roz's gal repeatedly asked afterwards, "What was up with his hair?"

But I've no truck with his looks. Or the band for that matter--they tackle the gringo mambo with aplomb. It was just this night that was so awkward.

Between each song, all of them bouncy latin jazz numbers, Buster would regale us with tales of drag queens, crack whores, Ecuadorian hotties on late night UHF, and recovering alcoholics. Fun, funny stuff that would normally kill with an audience of drunk ex-rockers. (You do know, of course, that Buster used to lead the New York Dolls, the most important American punk band ever, so, yes, this is all a gag.) Tonight, though, it was nothing but tourists. This made "Nueva Broadway (They Don't Smoke)," Buster's ode to the new Disney-style Times Square, all the more curious.

The jokes were good and well delivered (remind me to tell you the one about the guy with his dick in a bowl of pudding,) but the whole scene creeped me out. Like watching a bad audition. The band tried to help out, laughing and banging their instruments like they had never heard this before. By the time the group left the stage for a grand finale conga line through the audience, I was just embarrassed for everyone there.

Musically, the evening was simple top-notch. "Skin and Bones" a slow-tempo toe-tapper is a great little number no matter how you slice it. It's in Spanglish, so I don't know what it is about, actually, but it's good stuff. "The Closer I Get To Heaven" affords Brian Koonin, the musical director and album's producer, an opportunity to show off on a tres. It's a lovely melody, one good enough to stand alone from all the Vegas-cum-Laurence Welk schtick. Also exciting is "Linda Lee," about a gal so fine you can trust her to pick your horses, which features some totally legit Rickenbacker surf guitar.

So I recommend the show. Just be sure to get there when the place is packed, and you aren't exhausted on curry lamb and beer. I swear to you, I was never so glad to discover there would be no second encore as I was this night. I was in a cab within moments and fell asleep before we hit the 59th street bridge.