Pleasure Club

Leave through the back door and into the back alley, nodding at the wink behind the dark glasses. Breathe deep the night sky, leftover lightning, stars like spurs, spit-shined in hard rain. Perched at alley’s end, a long black limousine, beaded and gleaming, violet neon burning across the hood. A siren wails blocks away, a cop, an ambulance. Harley roars drown the siren. Records play. Her favorite song. Watch your heart. Watch your wallet. Watch your balance. Behind you stiletto heels click an unsteady rhythm through a velvet mist. A whiff of perfume, wisps of girlish laughter, cigarette smoke. It’s blood, sex and secrets, downtown on a Saturday night, on the side streets away from the light. It’s a celebration for the uninvited - a stroll through the Pleasure Club.
In only two years, Pleasure Club has wrought its own manifesto of vital, soul pounding rock n’ roll. As they mine the jeweled vein of their song writing and further unchain the monster that is their live show, the best of Pleasure Club is yet to be revealed.
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