Bar & Grill

After the Hollywood glory days died, the Rainbow took on a new face, a Rock & Roll anti-establishment where heads like Alice Cooper could come eat some soup and snort a rail off a 16-year-old’s face, all while Roman Polanski who (as time has told) was probably on the other side getting bobo from a thirteen-year-old under the table whilst pouring a glass of Moet and cheers-ing Jack Nicholson, who in turn was fucked up on ludes and dope, eyes half closed, head cocked back laughing hysterically and falling to the floor etc, etc, etc...

The Rainbow’s history is filled with these kinds of tales. Tales we hear about years after the fact, tales that resonate through the years, tales that compel us to seek out our scum stories in gutter dives where a shot and a beer still only costs a couple bucks and the juke box ain’t got a single soft song in it, and you can light a cigarette and some fucking yuppie couple from Brentwood ain’t gonna feign a cough or shoot you a sneer cause they’ll get fucked up and be dragged out half dead, bloody and screaming, talking about second hand smoke is the leading cause of cancer.

Fuck You.

These are the tales, some small, some epic, which shape our collective subconscious and form the picture of what we in our most tender (drunk) moments look upon and call, Rock & Fuckin’ Roll.