Tilt L.A. @ Jimmy's Lounge

Jimmy’s Lounge
6202 Santa Monica Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90038

Event:Tilt L.A.
Day: Sunday, and every Sunday
Date: February 10, 2008
(21+)

What started the night was watching a Daft Punk featuring Kanye West live performance of “Stronger,” which was on the Internet, which occurred at the 50th Grammy Awards that evening. Dang that was sweet. And yes, it’s Daft Punk featuring Kanye West, or at least the song should be attributed this way, in descending order of importance.

By the end of the performance there was a funk serge of energy that desired to see and hear more, more, more! Now! Those few minute of Daft Punk was like taking a half puff on a cigarette, or a half sip of smooth alcohol, or a half dose of any other evil drug. A half cut never puts a user’s mind or body at ease. The edginess and slight confusion for a complete fix set in. That’s when Jimmy’s Lounge was required a visit for some Tilt L.A.! Disappointment it was not, but rather a perfect self-prescribed prescription.

This lounge joint tonight offered a variety of uppers: Hyper Crush, a heavy supply of Briefcase Scenario, and a blast of Ultraviolet Sound to blow the remaining senses. Included was a combination of lethal mixes by BUL!M!ATRON!, Sonik, OCMD, and the final overdose likely Killed By Synth. There were enough goods here to keep the packed place high in an eltro habit-forming frenzy.

(Hyper Crush)

Hyper Crush was the first live pill performance disorientating time and space in “techno color laces” of fluorescent fixations. A sudden back to the past, future flashback of the ‘80’s revisited, revitalized, and slightly revised for the present. Hype vocalist Donny “Ponyboy” Fontaine is a look-alike of what Vanilla Ice could have been if he stayed ‘80’s cool rapping fresh lyrics to 8-bit beats, wearing trendy acid washed jeans, orange glow Chuck Taylors fitted with lime laces, a yellow Carlton Banks shirt, black rimmed glasses, and a massive Mercedes emblem dangling around his neck likely stolen from an eighteen-wheeler. Next to him was mic in hand Holly Valentine throwing the female “Candy Store” lyrics and style, a crisscross between Punky Brewster and Cyndi Lauper with a bunch of this and that tossed into fashion more colorful than Rainbow Brite. Rounding out the crew is vinyl master and plastic keytar player Preston Moronie in Day-Glo splatter, classic fake Oakley Razor Blade shades, and fitted with fad fingerless cycling gloves and headband; he looked like David Arquette from a made in the ‘80’s movie that was never made. Throw the jumping trio together to get a Rubik’s Cube of electrosonic hip hop dance beats, Cobra Kai and Robotech moves, with Back to the Future sounds and De Lorean futuristic songs fused with gull wing gags that would excite and amuse any and all NES cartridge blowing, Power Glove fisting, and Zapper holstering fan of the ‘80’s. No need to ask: Where’s the beef?

(Briefcase Scenario)

Briefcase Scenario opened wide and followed like a sunshine tab of entertainment that over indulged the “sexcore” senses with four emcees and a deejay on display: Cecil Yea! (Annie), slipped in tight curve black and stockings, led as the explicit sex object of the group spitting and moaning lyrics that would make Lil’ Kim seem innocent; while the three guy emcees replied with raw derogatory banter equivalent to N.W.A. turned dance mix, smack rapping jingles about protruding parts getting jammed and stuck in dark places: Rash Attack was the weird in a lemon “Free Kobe” trademark cap, tourist yellow sunglasses, white V-neck under shirt, and American flag boxers raised high above dress socks and sneakers; Flasher Dan was without a trench coat and fully disguised in incognito glasses and winter knit cap, looking like a chilly Canadian on the dance floor; David “Disco D” Romo was the stage pusher getting surrounded in the crowd with only his Havana hat to be seen, luckily loosing sight of his black collar shirt with candy cane striped tie tucked in a pair of swap meet floral stretch pants. For extra filthiness, they threw a naked female into the hormone gushing crowd that got fondled and passed around for any pleasure one desired to succumb from the polyvinyl babe without bursting her melon sized breasts. Others enjoyed tossing around inflated balls. All was in antics to release and please. An adult sexed form of Zany.

Hyper Crush and Briefcase Scenario were two live endorphin releasing injections into the senses that night. It didn’t feel like enough, but the craving was curbed. This was a mere taste of the oncoming addiction; enough to hold one over till next weekend when another hit of the indulging satisfaction would be supplied.

But how did it happen? What occurred besides the trip into electro luminescent sight and sound? And what happened to Ultraviolet Sound? Once the heart rate slowed to normal and the buzzing tone in the ears fell silent, there was finally a calm moment to think back. The following is a sequential recollection of events that transpired upon arrival in Hollywood, which began with spotting the lounge in a dismal section of Santa Monica Boulevard.
Jimmy’s Lounge would have been hard to locate on the bleak empty street if it wasn’t for the people scattered on the corner like cockroaches under streetlights ready to scurry into the double scoop chocolate icecream building with the awning dripping out over the sidewalk. No sign, except the glowing word “Cocktails” in sweet cherry red near its top slipping down the side. Not certain if it was the location at first, but the rest of the street was nothing but empty still shadows stretching away from the Yoshinoya beacon at the far end of the block.

Free meter parking after 6pm on the boulevard was taken. Took a turn onto the cross street, El Centro Ave, to find parking in the residential area. A few shady figures on different blocks wearing beaten coats as worn and scruffy as their faces lingered about on cell phones, pacing in circles on the cracked sidewalk. It felt like they were talking to each other, setting plans for something, just waiting for the right moment, and there it was, an open parking spot across from one of them; the only spot available within the surrounding blocks. No permit signs or anything, just an open grey curb with an odd orange striped pole sticking up from the grass. Stopping the car there felt like stopping in a dead end street in a bad neighborhood. The slightest bit of comfort was seeing an elderly couple across the way sitting under a porch light far behind their steel fence. If they weren’t afraid to be out in the open, then my vehicle stood a chance at surviving. Hid everything away and out-of-sight and locked up. Walked across the street, took a final glance back, and asked everything Holy to watch over it for a bit (and fortunately, the prayers were heard).

There was an exhale of relief to get onto Santa Monica Boulevard and become one of the cockroaches in the crowd. A few were smoking, but most seemed to be taking a breather from the non-stop music that leaked out softer than a passing car. The black suit doorman stood relaxed behind red ropes, checking IDs before unclipping an entrance. Tonight’s flyer stated that doors opened at 10; Free until 10:30 with RSVP found on their site; if not: $5. Got there around 11pm, and it was Free. No RSVP or anything. It turned out that there was no door charge the whole night, just had to be over 21 to enter. No hand stamp; interestingly the quiet suit appeared to remember everybody coming and going, not having to show ID more than that first upon arrival. Then it was past the unclipped ropes, under the number “6202,” under a red light bulb, and through the slit of heavy thick curtains.

Inside was smaller than expected. From walking in one can spot straight ahead to the back where a security guy in black stood hand crossed, feet spread parallel to shoulders, guarding the door that lead to the patio, which was obviously closed for the evening. There were only two directions to head: to the left into the lounge area or to the right for the dance floor. A drink in the lounge was required first.

(bar)

The lounge creates the casual mood with a three sided mahogany bar countertop that has a wet high gloss spotless luster for which one is almost cautious not to press an arm or elbow smear upon it while leaning in to amaze over the ceiling reaching shelves of amber glowing alcohol and placing an order with one of the two male bartenders. A vodka-cranberry served in a nice plastic crystal tumbler is the constant special at $3, mixed with watered down vodka or watered down cranberry or too much ice that melted too fast that made it taste like water with hints of vodka on some sips or drops of diluted cranberry on others, like drinking lemon water served at restaurants and tasting the bit of lemon in the water every few sips, something like that. Not even worth the short amount of time it took to finish while pondering over a vigil of white candles flickering on an empty wall. Got a Heineken served in a bottle shortly after for $6 and was pleased. The classy unusualness about this place is that they do not have beer on tap; everything is served in a tumbler or a beer bottle straight-up, which keeps the floors and area clear from looking cheap trashed.

(lounging)

Across from the bar without stools are four comfy lounge booths raised a step from the floor with each a table chandelier resembling dozens of shell coins that seemed to be frozen mid air just above in a forever still moment before they were to splash and shatter, a somewhat fragile wind chime without a breeze, radiating a dim light deep within. It’s a delicate touch accompanied by dark furry seats and throw pillows that feel to be made of material from old teddy bears and worn shag carpets that are cozy with a look of belonging in a vintage thrift shop. Selling at one of the tables were vintage button rings and items of various oddities that sat well in the lounging surroundings. Sharing the same booth area was the clothing artist and brand “Local Tourist” selling T-shirts and bandannas with the brand name multiplied over the product like repeating standards down a sheet of school supplied paper (a bad memory to an elementary school flashback of unusual punishment). The three remaining booth were taken for the majority of the evening by first comers and waiting musicians keeping company with their gear. The mingling room is between the leaners on the bar and the lounge booth, or there’s a drink ledge on the wall leading to the closed patio area where the security guy stands, but here he seems to watch with boredom your every sip or listening to nearby conversations even though the room is blaring loud with funkatronic sounds from the dance floor.

The dance floor is where the main attraction to the action took place, a step level above separating the watching lounge from the crazies being bombarded with electroshock beats from big bully speakers holding down in the corners. Stepping onto the slick floor was like stepping on a live wire and becoming one with the stir of people radiating neon rainbows of adrenaline. Pure human energy. Or it could have been the black lights and red and green beams giving vibrant life to outfits that were in constant sparkle by the disco ball twirling center ceiling. The only divider between the dance floor and lounge was an edge and two pillars with a standing box between for a higher view of everything or to show off everything, but the rush of stepping foot on the dance floor felt like suddenly becoming part of the show, part of the performance, part of flow in an electric current.

A few stiff couches took up dance space along the curtained wall jolting the spine when falling back onto them, though mostly were used for bouncing or sitting upon the seatbacks to a catch breath and wipe sweat. A cubicle of mirrors in the corner was where DJs spun their techniques. And everywhere between, including in the crowd, was the stage for Hyper Crush and Briefcase Scenario. The dance floor was the stage, like one big house party in a living room. Hyper Crush started around 11:30 and crushed grooves until midnight. After about twenty minutes of a DJ in between, Briefcase Scenario dived into the crowd with a few stop and start difficulties, which may have been why they cut their set short to twenty-two minutes, or so. The flow of music tried to be non-stop between the DJs and the performers, but it was difficult with each having to set-up gear over the shoulders while the other was doing their thing. Cables everywhere. Possibly, exposed wires on the dance floor after all, keeping the crowd electrified.

Whatever mess and slight problems there were, it will likely be sorted out in shows to come, hopefully. The delay and confusion may have also been the reason for Ultraviolet Sound to be unable to perform. According to Tilt L.A. there was schedule changes, then changes back, and by then, it was too late and Ultraviolet Sound was done and gone without a performance; their set time would have been close to one in the morning if they did go on. It has been less than half a year, beginning in October of 2007, since the inception of Tilt L.A. at Jimmy’s Lounge and there’s obviously a few kinks to smooth, but no matter the difference between what one expects and one finds on a Sunday at Tilt L.A., he or she will leave at the end of the night delightfully satisfied nonetheless.

As for the restrooms, they are located at the rear of the dance floor behind what looked like the same mahogany gloss wood of the bar set upwards and split in half to create an open path leading dead center to a square sun blazing bronze with no sign of which direction to head: right to the ladies' room and left for the men's. Inside the men’s is somewhat an extension of the artsy entry with gold sunspots on red walls ornamenting: a mirror over a steel trough sink with liquid soap and paper that are kept clean by the ever present attendant, two porcelain wall targets, and a toilet stall having a paper roll on a hanger that looks very life art because of its strange placement on the door with a single spotlight shining solely upon it.