Ciao, fellow sex fiends! I’m Lexxxi Lombardi. I have extra “x’s” in my name because I’m X-rated. I always order an xxxtra side of sexxx whenever I eat out (get it?!). And, Lexxxi rhymes with sexy, and people tell me my name sounds like a brand of extra-large rubbers. But I don’t need those cuz I only ride bareback (Hi-Ho Silver! ?)

I was born kicking and screaming when I shot out of my mother in Padova, Italy, and I haven’t stopped since. My dad was a toothy real estate agent who actually made it on Tuttie Frutti twice, and my mom was a chain-smoking, stay-at-home mother who would have rather given birth to a carton of cigarettes; I know because she told me every year on my birthday.

The housing market tanked when I was about 5. My old man lost his job, went on a week-long prostitution bender, threw himself from Venezia’s legendary “Ponte delle Tette” (roughly translated, “Bridge of Tits”), and unceremoniously drowned in the canal. I guess boob-diving runs in the family.

At that point, my mother, a die-hard Catholic woman, forced me into the choir of the local parish, I guess thinking somehow we could get back into the Lord’s good graces. I sang my ass off there, especially to this one nun who was kinda hot, and she would always hug me when I sang to her and that way I could be next to her boobs.

Not only did I have a natural gift for popping a boner in church, but I could sing and I outshone all the other boys on the choir. But that didn’t last forever and when my voice started cracking, I started sounding like Vince Neal (sorry Vince!). At 14, some of the bigger assholes in the choir got fed up with my imitations of Kiss, Iron Maiden, AC/DC, and Mötley Crüe, and beat the shit out of me.

That little music lesson produced short term memory loss, so what happened after that is kind of hazy (or maybe it was the Jack Daniel shots – ha ha!). The end of my choir days came once I got in the habit of getting into habits (hoo-ha!). After I got caught bedding a few brides of Christ one too many times, my church singing career was over.

At this point, my mother had enough, and at the tender age of 15, I found myself on the streets, quite literally singing for my dinner. After playing in a few bands around Venuto with hopeless posers who didn’t know how to dress, drink, or fuck, I packed my shit and moved on.

I was hitchhiking in Tuscany when I got picked up by a sleazy van on the outskirts of Firenze carrying three members of “Trouser Snakes.” Their lead singer had just left them in the middle of a sad tour across Europe — some guy named William Bruce Bailey. I wonder whatever happened to that dickhead?

Anyway, they had a show that night and were desperate for a singer. They found out I could sing, and I was on stage within a few hours. Didn’t know the words to their songs, so I just acted like Diamond Dave cuz he always forgot the words on stage and he did all right (for a while at least) and I managed to rock the goddamn house (sorry Dave!). Haven’t learned a single lyric since.

We rocked every European capital and banged scores of chicks, but it all came to a crashing end one night when we were high in Geneva. After a concert, we had the idea to jump into the Rhone from the Mont Blanc bridge with some Russian strippers. I must have saved up some points with the man upstairs during my choir days; somehow I got caught on a dangling chain while the rest of the band was sucked into the Seujet Dam and met very rock star ends.

This left me in Geneva without a gig. Somehow I got a job in a Migrol gas shop, which worked out perfect because they sold booze. It didn’t help me stay sober, but it kept my costs low, and that’s the kind of smart thinking that would help me become a rock star.

One day some gay-looking, carrot-top, big-hair rocker-looking blonde guy wandered in. Not too many of those in Geneva. He told me that if I gave him a fifth of vodka, he would let me audition for his band. He had some story about being a guitar shredder in a famous band in the 80s, but ending up stranded in Europe when his label went under -, blah, blah, blah, Jesus — I’m falling asleep just remembering this. Anyway, he was looking for a new singer because the old one was fucking his own sister, or something like that, and he said that was too “white-trash” for him so he had kicked him out.

Whatever, I was desperate to get out of this Migrol gig and back into a band, so I gave him the last bottle in stock. He told me, “If you want to rock with us, you’ve got to bleach your hair, put on makeup and jewelry, dress like a bitch, and learn how to do kicks and shit.” I said, “no problem” cuz I never wanted to deal with all of the bullshit stuff like writing music, practicing, and all the other shit that has nothing to do with rock ‘n’ roll. I know how to dress, dance, drink, and smash pussy — and that’s all you need to know to be an ass-kicking frontman.

So I went to practice with them one night, just for shits. It turned out the spiky-haired guy was Scotty Rokkett, and the band was Metal Justice. I knew who they were when I was growing up, but somehow I always thought they were a gay band.

I didn’t like him at first, and actually I still don’t. But it seemed like my only chance to get into a band at that point, and I at least wanted to tell chicks that I was in a band. After all, it’s only rock’ n’ roll. That was 2008. We are still playing together and we still don’t have a record deal. We’ve had a handful of STDs, but no record deal.

Event List