29 years of Twilight Testimony from the Edge of the Evening

Since 1988, Cyrano and Señor Amor have been in hot pursuit of rump-rolling, finger popping, sweat drenching music. For those who are willing to drive their funky souls, this is the late night sound of a scintillating planet. Your selectors know this music is equally adjustable for driving fast, or very, very slowly.

Sensing a snooze in the airwaves of the late 80’s, the Molotov Cocktail Hour was launched on a hapless halfshell. Their aim was simple but true: for one hour a week unleash the soundtrack for all Rascals, Hussies, Ho-Dads, Bon Vivants, Space Chicks, Secret Agents, Hipsters, Strippers, and Big Tippers. Initially, the playlists were to foretell the Lounge rebirth of the early Nineties. Vegas crooners, Film Noir tunage, and exotic sounds of hungry cannibals rose like smoke signals to old punk rockers looking for new kicks.

“Lounge” soon had it’s own bin card (in establishments known as “Record Stores”) and Cyrano and Señor Amor witnessed the rise and fall of the Cocktail Nation. They were not content to become a casualty of a style and sensibility they spent years championing. Once again, the boundaries disappeared, shifted, and reset like tan lines on Sofia Loren. Amid shattered glass and broken hearts, Space Age synthesizers bubbled from a distant past, Scott Walker seized the controls as Serge Gainsbourg pressed the “launch” button. Cops of brown leather and funky monsters from the seventies fit snugly into diner seats next to Jimmy Smith and his B-3 Hammond Cheese on rye. Mustachioed Italian hitmen straightened their ties while foppish English Mods loosened their ascots. The tunes were not going to go quietly into that dark night and neither were the two chaperones of chicanery.

So they dug. Deeper. A great wide eyed, big bottomed world awaited.

They continued playing around town, in clubs, Tiki bars, Mexican restaurants and super villain hideouts. The distinctive sound of the Molotov Men graced celebrity birthday parties, Nude Chess Tournaments, Major Museums and choice venues of upscale optometry.

Somewhere along the line, through human weakness, dumb luck and a domino game’s stake of legendary proportions, the program was given an extra hour’s length and slid into an earlier time slot.  No questions were asked and those who could protest had mysteriously left town and vacated their place of residence.  While the Mahi-Mahi room agreed to these changes, it meant sharing the restaurant during the weekly meeting of the Encino Shriner’s Club.

An uneasy trust was earned on both sides as curious be-fezzed retirees stopped by the broadcasting broom-closet crammed full of state of the art audio equipment (well, for the Eisenhower-era). The M.C.H was no longer solely in the realm of all-night truckers, donut shop employees, graveyard-shift security guards, sea captain’s wives and lonely speed freaks.  The program was more readily available to a wider audience of questionable tastes and absurd expectations. Into the early evening they stepped with a crate full of second-rate forgotten tunes, badly recorded with nothing but pure heart and a sweaty smile. They now faced 21st Century distractions, medicated attention deficits, and as many square preoccupations as this world can provide. The bar was set impossibly low. The odds were atmospherically high and the stakes were never more well done.

With a resolve rivaling that of Colonel Nicholson (Alec Guinness from Bridge On The River Kwai), they stiffened their upper lips and loosened their lower backs.  Sure, it’s easier to just hop over it, but sometimes when the world sets the bar so low for you, you have to limbo under it with style — just to show the bastards. Molotov continues to shout and pout along any interstate with well dressed, swinging abandon. And now their past becomes your present. Should you choose to accept their mission, they will provide an unequaled level of attention, dedication and commitment to making your scene happening.