Sensing a snooze in the airwaves of the late ’80s, the Molotov Cocktail Hour was launched on a hapless half-shell by DJ Tallulah Breakwater. Her aim was simple but true: for one hour a week unleash the soundtrack for all Rascals, Hussies and Ho-Dads, Bon Vivants, Secret Agents and Soul Sisters, Cryptsters, Strippers, and Big Tippers. Initially, the playlists foretold the Lounge rebirth of the early Nineties; Vegas crooners, Film-Noir tuneage, Latin Rhythms, and Exotic sounds of hungry cannibals rose like smoke signals to old punk rockers looking for new kicks.  Along the critical path of the Molotov mission, Tallulah repatriated to her off-shore island HQ, and rookie agents Cyrano and Señor Amor climbed into the cockpit

“Lounge” soon had its own bin card (in establishments known as “Record Stores”) and the Molotov Menschs 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 Etta James pressed the “launch” button. Cops of brown leather and Kung Fu Masters from the seventies fit snugly into diner seats next to Jimmy Smith and his B-3 Hammond cheese on rye. Echoing forth from a 60’s time tunnel, Mustachioed, Italian hitmen straightened their ties, foppish English Mods loosened their ascots while North African organists revved their mopeds. 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 abandoned bank vaults, Tiki bars, Mexican restaurants, and supervillain hideouts. The distinctive sound of the Molotov Men graced celebrity birthday parties, Nude Chess Tournaments, Airport restaurants, private salons, and choice venues of upscale optometry.

Somewhere along the line, through human weakness, dumb luck, and a domino game 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 Molotov safehouse at the Mahi-Mahi room agreed to these changes, it meant sharing the Bar & Grill with the weekly meeting of the Encino Shriner’s Club.

An uneasy trust was earned on both sides as curious be-fezzed retirees peeked into 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 widows, 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. Inevitably, they were confronted by 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.

To offset the salt & pepper of Cyrano and Senor Amor, came Special Agent Lotus into the mix to provide a third flavor – somewhere between Night Train, mescaline, and Szechuan peppers.  Her passion for international 60’s sounds rivaled her love for Tropical Brutalist Architecture, the Library Sciences, and a reliable pair of tight, striped pants.

With a resolve rivaling that of Colonel Nicholson on The River Kwai, the Tralfamadorian trio 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 deploy their sideways soul, full-frontal funk, and backside boogaloo. Should you choose to accept their mission, they will provide an unequaled level of attention and dedication to make your hips drop, your fingers pop, and your wig flop.