Inside, Aerosmith’s svelte front man was joined by more rock stars — Ian Astbury (once of The Cult, now sitting in for Jim Morrison for the blasphemous Doors reunion), glam photographer Mick Rock, Sean Pierce (Toilet Boys) and other guitar demigods were abound, as was the less rock and more rolly Boy George sporting a sharp white straw fedora. The atmosphere reflected punk irreverence, with attendees freely smoking cigarettes (indoors!) and marijuana fumes drifting freely amidst the crowd. And then the show began.

Set against altars of dried fruit and framed portraits of rock icons, models were birthed one by one sporting what can only be described pirate chic. Flowing, bleached out tattered swimsuits, dresses and pants, long with the prerequisite Buddhist Punk T-shirt made their appearance against ludicrous headware — stuffed parrots for the ladies, civil war and captain’s hats for the menfolk — and a variety of dangly chains and keys. And while models walked with requisite poise, they too soon got caught up in the spirit, taking on rock stances and even flailing down the runway, laughing and grinning and actually enjoying themselves as the rowdy crowd jeered them on.

The clothes themselves, well, there were good and bad. My own opinion is that aqua should be kept to a minimum, but the aesthetic did strike a tone both worldweary and elegant, recalling nothing so much as an update of Johnny Depp (news)’s Jack Sparrow. The exception was a quartet of “greaser” ensembles, which would fall flat anywhere outside of a bowling alley.

I once made the mistake of calling a musician friend a rock star to his face. He took offense and informed me that he was a musician. “Rock stars are only in it for the fashion, not the craft.” I doubt that Nicholas Morley would agree. All in all, one helluva performance.

SIDENOTE: The Buddhist Punk goodie bag, featuring edible body powder, t-shirts and other treats was hands down the best of the season. That’s worth something, right?