Real cult-ure

Local film writer-director-producer Regan Redding says he plans to write a book called How Not to Make a Movie based on his recent experience with creating the DIY, shoestring budget blood-and-breast-fest Killer Biker Chicks. Local roots-rocker Rob Bell, frontman of the Yeller Bellies and musical director -- and actor -- for the film, says, "I know nobody's gonna come up and give me a golden check" when asked about his career on the stage and, now, the screen.

Yes, there's a whole lot of self-effacement going on with this thing, and that's good. It's not just a shtick, see, but earnest self-effacement -- the kind you'll often find alongside other valuable artist traits like perfectionism, high work ethic and ego-checking respect for the art. The kind that ultimately results in the creation of "real Vegas culture," in other words, which is exactly what's happened here. Whether you love it -- the B-rate exploitation genre, the film, the killer soundtrack as a project in itself -- or hate it, Vegas culture doesn't get any more real than Killer Biker Chicks, now ready for its DVD release party Aug. 29 at Bunkhouse Saloon.

Long story short about Redding: He lived in Hollywood, worked as a production assistant on several higher-budget films in the '90s, eventually giving up Southern California for Henderson. He explains it was partly disgust with the L.A. scene, partly a little bridge-burning that lay behind his decision to migrate. ("I've been kicked off of every [production] lot in Hollywood," he says, describing his infamous temper and his willingness to use it with maybe a sliver of remorse).

With his Killer Biker Chicks script in hand, the desert shooting locations of tiny Dyer, Nev., in mind and a desire to see it all realized, Redding met Bell through MySpace.com, loved his musical mojo and quickly put the 39-year-old Vegas native and rock fixture in charge of curating the soundtrack. The result was a 32-track (including short, spoken interludes culled from the film) beast that actually achieves what every soundtrack guns for: greatness on its own. Sure, these tracks are a bold and apt accompaniment to the tender cinematic story of gun-loving, rampaging, shirtless desert beauties and the bikes they're never actually shown riding, but they're just a fit for repeated living room listens -- thanks to Bell, whose love for off-kilter composition and witty lyricism, whether his or someone else's, save this collection from drowning in dull, roots-rock orthodoxy.

"You go to a festival and it's, like, 10 hours of 'Old Joe Clark,'" says the bluegrass-trained vocalist and mandolin strummer. "Every song is exactly the same when it kicks off. I love the purpose ... that it's three chords and anyone can jump in whenever ... that's really cool. At the same time, I like a little variety."

The fact that he's serious about escaping the stultifying confines of the genre is evident in his own band's contribution to the KBC soundtrack. Two of the four Yeller Bellies tunes here were made for the movie (including the self-titled theme song), but two others are pre-existing live show standards; if "Animal Instinct," with its bizarre -- and well-crafted -- zoological-inventory-meets-cautionary-tale-of-a-wounded-heart doesn't scratch your itch for something different, maybe "Here Kitty Kitty" will, a jazzy, minor blues ode to the narrator's love for his moody girl's irresistible genitalia. ("She may have a pretty kitty, but watch out for those claws," wails Bell at the end-of-verse refrain).

Add a handful of other indisputably talented local acts (including Lucky Cheats, Quint and the Cowpunk Calamity and The X-Girlfriend Experience -- all playing the Bunkhouse after the Aug. 29 screening) and you've got something fit for heavy rotation in the car, at least until fall breaks and we're back to winter.

In the film, all four Yeller Bellies (Bell, guitarist Joel Hillhouse, upright bassist Mitch Potter and drummer Jimmy Krah) appear as biker gang members in a kind of minimalist music video when "Here Kitty Kitty" finally rolls around. After several minutes, they're all sliced and stabbed to death. Really, it's nicely executed in a deliberately B-movie kind of way, even if both Bell and Redding lament having lost the best footage for the scene due to the mistakes of a new cameraman. And yet both guys seem to take it in stride, appreciating what has been accomplished here.

"Professionalism ... that's the great thing about Rob," says Redding. "I'm sure he was a hell-raiser back in the day, but he's mellowed out now, wife and two kids, and he's probably doing the best work of his life. 'The album's better than the movie, just so you know,' I told him."

"Yeah, I don't have any delusions of grandeur here," says Bell, about a month away from finishing studio sessions for the Yeller Bellies second full-length CD. "But [acting and music direction] are a lot of fun. This helps boost our profile, gets some more people involved, so when the next CD comes out, maybe we can get some professional videos done or something, who knows? It just helps out."

And that's where the real Vegas culture comes in. Bikes, sun-parched landscapes and topless girls? Real, right down to the unreality of the latters' breasts. Washed out cinematography evocative of the quiet haze we see and feel in the open desert? As real as the painted neons of honored local artist Jerry Misko. A gaggle of low-fi-tending bands like the Yeller Bellies and their stylistic brethren who seem more interested in the music than the all-too-common posturing and airs of entitlement we find so frequently on the Vegas music scene? Very real. And God knows, very refreshing.

Dave Surratt, Dsurratt@lvcitylife.com