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Sonic Boom


March 01, 2001|By RICHARD MONTENEGRO, Staff Writer

The Go-Go's. The Bangles. Kittie. The Donnas. The Dixie Chicks. Pussy Kat Delight.

Pussy Kat Delight? Ah, yeah.

El Centro's own Pussy Kat Delight, or PKD as this power trio is known on the street, is the next all-girl group headed for super stardom.

PKD doesn't know any songs, save a four-note riff a friend and I taught the band about five minutes before it formed. What's more, PKD doesn't even own any instruments.

But that doesn't matter. In the spirit of the great *NSYNC/Backstreet Boys/O-Town impresario Lou Pearlman, I think I can work with these girls.


Or maybe not.

As I lay in bed one recent morning with a member of PKD, I asked what would be that night's dinner fare.

Her response: "I can't cook. I'm a rock star."

An estrogen-laden version of The Sex Pistols' Johnny Rotten was born. Possibly three were born, although I've yet to confer with rest of the group.

One recent evening, a few friends and I got together for an intimate jam session. Armed with a guitar, bass, a set of drums and little talent, we set about to wow our wives/girlfriends/friends with old-fashioned heavy metal posturing, punk rock precision (an oxymoron?) and decidedly overwrought and overblown 12-bar blues jams.

What we succeeded in doing was creating a monster — a three-headed beast by the name of Pussy Kat Delight.

In what was likely a ploy to stop us from playing the same riffs and songs over and over again, my wife, Priscilla, and our friends, Kristina and Danielle, asked … no, demanded, we teach them to play.

After laying the groundwork for PKD's first smash single, the girls asked all males in the room to leave so the act could be polished.

Within 15 minutes, riffage was honed, efforts were schemed to find a vocalist and plans were made to purchase pink guitars and a pink drumset.

And the infamous name — PKD — originally intended as an acronym for Priscilla, Kristina and Danielle, morphed into Pussy Kat Delicious, then Pussy Kat Delight.

The boys and I laughed.

But such a surreal scene got me thinking. Some serious cash could made off of exploiting this raw babe-age.

Taking a cue from the great Phil Spector, molding these girls into a musical phenomenon of platinum-selling proportions would take little work.

Everybody's looking for direction, and all PKD would need is a Svengali of my magnitude.

Matching sequined pink catsuits would be the first order of business. Resplendent in sparkling shades of rose, salmon and puce, the band garb could be topped by little velvety black kitty ears. Cool.

Some finely crafted Swedish pop ala Britney or Backstreet, and a heavy helping of punk rock in the spirit of Bad Religion or Blink 182 could be the key ingredients of PKD's musical canon.

My wife has yet to agree to such lofty ambitions, but I'm working on her. Once she cracks it will be a matter of time before the others fall in line.

Stay tuned for tales of Pussy Kat Delight.

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