Marathon Live @ 3 Clubs

3 Clubs
1123 N. Vine St.
Hollywood, CA 90038

Event: Marathon Live
Date: February 20, 2008
Day: Every Wednesday
Cost: Free
(21+)

Like a block of tired un-sculpted gray clay long neglected sits 3 Clubs with flaking paint over windows barred with rusted security steel that blends between the grease and grime filth of a Mobil gas station on the corner and the dingy liquor store, Laundromat, nail salon plaza that it is uncomfortably connected to, with a tight alley fit parking for all, including for the boxers in training at the Wild Card Boxing Club above in the back. By day, 3 Clubs is one of those places you’d pass a hundred times and never take notice of, and if you did, you’d think it’s a condemned warehouse or a forgotten soundstage with back taxes building up that would soon sink the remaining barely surviving businesses in the lot. By night, a small pale blue “Cocktails” sign brightens over the front recessed entrance, keeping company the leather bundled coat doorman propped on a stool. No other sign or introduction is given for what one can expect from this place. No labels, just “Cocktails.”

Free parking is on the streets at the Free meter after 6 locations and in the plaza parking that extends to the far rear behind the businesses. The lot is fairly well lit and is fenced off in the rear so that nobody and nothing could slip out the back unnoticed. There is also the doorman from the boxing club that sits on a stoop in the back, watching. In total there’s something like thirty plaza sharing parking spots here. And don’t fret about the parking restrictions that seem posted everywhere in the lot. Nothing is going to get towed, ticketed, or locked behind a fence, though there is a warning that the back lot closes at a certain time. According to the 3 Clubs doorman, and from previous experiences, none of the warning signs are ever in effect.

While walking through the parking lot one sees there is a side entrance “Stage Door” where bands load their gear into the venue. This is not the main entrance, but the area where bands all unload their vehicles before the first performance, piling it inside somewhere. No gear or band is left on the sidewalk, curb, or street waiting until their set time to be humped inside and then to be quickly dumped out again afterwards. This noticeable detail shows the appreciation and respect that this venue gives its bands. Others venues having attitudes of dump-in from the curb, play, kick out to the street really shows bad character and a lack of class. Venues should always treat the bands like a welcoming guest of honor, the crowds that come out to see them always do. Who cares if a venue has history or not, that’s only important for tourists. Moving on.

At the front, the bundled coat doorman checks IDs for 21+ only entry. After he gives back the ID with a nod, and after a quick glance down to tuck away my ID, a lady appears before the door with a coupon in my face for $3 Dewar’s, almost sticking it in my wallet before it closes, as if the little card must be taken before one can pass. It does get taken and she steps aside just enough for me to grab open the door and get away.

Stepping into 3 Clubs is like stepping into a movie theatre after the film has started, but without the bright reflection on the screen to guide the path, but rather only candles that twinkle at tables like far away stars, and even that seems like a hallucination of sunspots. To the immediate left is one long booth, curved end, stretch black leather that seats about a dozen skirting around a couple of tables, which can either accommodate one large gathering or two to three small groupings. Nice thing is that it has space for all, and a lot of space to get to know your neighbors in the same booth, at different tables. Unknown attraction may begin at opposite ends, where it is nearly impossible to see, until scooting closer, meeting for an intimate whisper and pleasant conversation. And the chance of connecting with a stranger that may soon become a take home familiar is percentage increased by the beauty of the darkness. The only light to shine truth in a person’s appearance, but at the same time playing lighting and shadow tricks, are those small speck of a candle burning in the red glass, with which the golden glows barely reach the edge of the table. Above the seats on ornamental wallpaper are slightly brighter effects of antique lighting, but in honesty nothing useful for anything other than prop lights. These few wall lamps reflect a small circumference of paper patterns while table candles amber even smaller circles. Not much else is clearly visible.

There are three booths like this running along the fringe of the distorted wildflower swirling carpet. One is in the said corner upon entry and two are across from the bar. All are basically the same size in the same darkness. One additional booth in the back is a step up, boxed like a large half cropped wood crate cubicle with seating on four sides with one narrow corner open for steps. The steps make it a bit more difficult to approach and meet that special somebody in this corner. Here if you set foot on that first step in approaching that new attraction, an introduction is a must, you're committed, no matter how distasteful her face may become upon closer evaluation in the dim glow. This darkness can be very beneficial for those less than flower pretty, especially when there’s the added alcohol effect of lowering one’s standards and inhibitions. And remember, a misinterpreted attraction can be very deceiving with such few physical features visible in this dim light; this is Hollywood where what one sees in appearance may not actually be what it normally represents. Be aware, unless one is open to spontaneous drunken experimentation.

Catering to distorting visuals of this classy wallpapered mining cave is the bar that puzzle piece completes the place into a resemblance and feel of a vintage nostalgia old time speakeasy. Somewhat of a question mark bar, for it is in the shape of a “?” with a straight counter leading to a bulb top end surrounded with bar stools for those to individually hunch over drinks. A Dewar’s with ginger ale was the $3 drink of choice served over ice in a heavyset glass tumbler. None of that coupon at the door required. The friendly female at the door was simply a sales advertisement and kind reminder that the $3 Dewar’s special that has been happening around town was happening here as well. But instead of just offering one choice of Dewar’s and ginger, like other places were doing with heavy on the ginger, this place served it up any style: neat, on the rocks, with ginger or Coke, whatever the preference, or even a tub shot. And by far, the lone bartender made it worth the wait it took to get to me, for he served the Dewar’s and ginger perfectly: a little over half on the ice and the exact amount of ginger ale to shave the harsh tail end bite of the hefty portion of Dewar’s whisky, making it into a rather pleasantly chilled, sipping drink. And after being done with this drink and needing a refresher, the bartender’ll take the glass, toss the melting water, fill it with fresh ice and pour together the next in your now designated drinking glass for the evening, which at first sight seems odd and unusual, but then as the glass is refilled, the familiarity of personalization become apparent. A jukebox nearby eases with Bob Dylan, making the scotch juice soother.

After a few drinks into the blood, the ginger ale through the system needed to be flushed. Restrooms were in the rear, down a path along the stair riser boxed seating going behind where a narrow hall splits left for the ladies and right for the gents. The hall to the right feels like it goes around another corner separated by a door with an “M” upon it, which continues past a side sink, and ending in a dead end where a toilet wall stall is placed. It’s a tight fit that you almost need to back out of to get out of. And if one pull the stall door open to use the bowl it will momentarily trap the standing pissing person in frozen position until the door is closed. It’s a lot of congestion, spatial manipulation, and timing to safely transverse this restroom without getting knocked by the door or stuck between a running sink and a flushing toilet. Though the tile and doily pattern wallpaper is a nice touch to the awkwardness design of this sanitation room.

Shortly after 10pm, across from the bar, a set of doors opened between the middle lounge booths.
Through these doors is a short hall just long enough to have two black couches across from each other in pitch darkness, darker than in the lounge, which is why some call these “make-out” couches, set far enough apart to create an aisle leading to another set of doors having circle port windows.

The doors with circle port windows leads open to the stage lounge. It’s a second lounge room. There’s the full “Swingers” bar to the left upon entry with brass railing and foot rest, but without the stools. It’s a straight bar, nothing too complex, with a female bartender wiping the wood and serving up the hard stuff. This is where the bands seem to gather and order up their drinks, and at the same time it becomes apparent that Tecate, PBR, and a few other beers are served as pop tops. Noticed a few band members leaning on the rail chugging down final gulps before grip smashing their can. For a moment, there was the thought they were going to sneak out a plastic ring six pack that they might’ve picked up from the liquor store next door and pop off another, but instead they turned around and set the crippled can on the counter while the bartender snapped open a fresh one. Not many places still serve beer in cans, maybe because there’s that sense, as it felt here, that the musicians would at any moment smash the darn thing on their forehead. It would have been insane to see such a sight, though it didn’t occur in observations tonight.

Continuing clockwise next to the bar is a raised lounge booth, much like the box corner seating in the back of the other room, though this table lamp lit cube is designated for Sophie & Karen, the Marathon Live DJs that play an assortment of rock and alternative music throughout the evening, loud through multiple speakers surrounding the room, adding a little more peppy pop to the atmosphere than the chill sipping sounds of Dylan in the front lounge. The duo DJs don’t play anything too unique, no unheard remixes, just the radio regular that they string together in a sort of fade-out, fade-in neutral volume level blending rather than actual mixing; it sounded like two girls that brought their own iPods and connected it to the house fader with volume controls. They’re cute girls bobbing heads to the beat and are always on the bill to DJ. Let them have fun is one guess.

In front of the DJ act is the nice sized lounging area raised two steps high with one stretch of a cushioned bench that extends across the wood panel back wall and wraps around the corner and continues half past. It is accompanied by eight tables spread across with two additional cushioned chairs at each. It’s like a dinner restaurant corner with candles and snug seating behind and near, being able to turn a head and talk, or scoot along the bench, to the next table. The chairs and tables separate the seated crowd, but at the same time the bench connects them all.

In the far corner is another cubicle booth, much like the DJ area, but this spot is reserved for stashing the band’s gear, stacking high with black cases and chrome drum kits. It takes up quite a bit of extra seating, and kind of looks like a musician’s dump pile that spills over the floor, which instantly dooms the natural wood grain and carpet atmosphere with a feeling of imminent volatile explosiveness. Like noticing a bomb sitting calm in a cathedral: it’s there, it’ll soon go off, and it won’t be subtle.

Ground zero where live music detonates is a crater, a sort of pit recessed below the seating. Viewers look down from the rippled edge, past the standing crowd, to a sun circular cut-off stage touching a red horizon of curtain waves extending to the ceiling; a Pacific sunset turned ocean upwards; a description of impossible strange nonsense, but regardless, a stage that would be on fire soon. Though it’s a small stage area no bigger than a rotating car platform, it is very much the center of attention.

Near 10:45: Ashley and Jeremy (sp?) were the first performers, two guys sitting together, each easing on their lap a guitar. Vocals lumbered an acoustic while the other gleamed with a glossed electric. They were not part of the specified line-up for the night and only played for about fifteen minutes, but those fifteen minutes were gravitationally compelling, a sudden onslaught of heaviness fell over the body weighted further by burdening emotions. My spirit turned thick and seemed to drain from my soles and ooze down the steps of the carpet and soak into the used. It was like hearing a sad echo from an origin that died long ago. Each resonating rippling of guitar strings invoked images of childhood bliss of family love that has long since been ripped away by time and reality. A happy past that now depresses. Sadness that humbles. Watching them was like watching two lonely faces in the moon that never knew each other, shedding tears into stars that faded into the celestial void. A lethargic entrancement. When they announced their last song, it was like they were waving their final goodbye. They would soon be gone. No information to be found on them. Who were these two? Unknown, yet well remembered.

About 20 past 11: Echo Hawk slammed into their debut performance, spurting jams a hundred decibels higher than the opening act. This band has the sound of an unsigned Stone Temple Pilots, Scott Weiland sheer vocalist in David Kelly, leading with jagged guitar riffs. While second singer and bass player Ben Jindra thunders his cavernous deep and dry Vavoom voice over thick undulating bass chords. And completing the Echo Hawk three is the crash drowning Nirvana slash The Offspring rampant raging drums and ventilating of Jamie Douglas. Together, this band echoes a minced combobulation of early nineties alternative rock. Though this was the first live appearance of Echo Hawk, the members of the band are familiar to the local Indie scene, for they are all a derivation of the currently hiatus band The Distants, but now with a harsher and coarser sound far removed from what they had with the soft female solo lead Guinevere King. This night they were even set to uncage their EP release as well. Unfortunately, their shipment of CDs was stolen from their doorsteps, forcing them to sell only T-shirt for $15 that included an EP in the mail within the week. Good with the bad, the night worked out for them, even with David Kelly playing with a broken collar bone.

At 12: The Binges were wasted and ready to play, swallowing shots waiting for more as drummer, Travis “Skanky” Smith, threw off his shirt and sucked empty a can. They always seem to play after midnight, which gives this drudge crew enough binging time to invigorate with alcohol. A psycho ward without bars is what they become, though they are very much in control of their craft while letting loose insanity as vocalist Dylan Squatcho shaved heads with his microphone, bashed the snare when he felt like it, and tossed a tambourine out for somebody, anybody and everybody, to keep it jangling mad throughout the performance. Squatcho was lost in the crowd for the most part, falling from the stage, shooting another shot, growling contorted lip lyrics while swaggering about. Not much better in mind was that Skanky in the back banging drums that shook constant like a newlywed bed in a motel, pounding and pounding and never letting up, except for the next chug. Tokyo Sisters Mayuko and Tsuzumi Okai, bass and guitar, kept pace with rampant momentum, not saying a word, letting their instruments scream their spiraling head gushing of emotions that are The Binges. Straightjackets unleashed.

During the madhouse performance, and throughout the other sets, the sound was a crackly muffle, but what made it worse was that the vocals came from all around, from all the speakers, those hanging above the stage and the speakers across the back wall. When Dylan Squatcho got lost in the crowd and kept singing, it seemed like he was right behind you, though he was actually next to you screaming his face off. His lips were moving over gritting teeth near stage side while his shouts were coming down from the rear. Not good. The instruments aren’t that obvious, just loud, they way they should be. As for the glimmer of stage lighting, if there was a power outage during the show, nobody would know. The Binges had a spotlight on their two headed bobcat drums, but besides that, they were playing in the dark most of the time, except for rare moments when spotlights flooded then quickly blew out back to black. The whole show, and club, seemed like it could have been powered by a portable gasoline generator stashed in a back room somewhere. After the final performance, I exited out through the Stage Door between the DJ booth and the tables. Outside my eyes squinted to the bright streetlights, like stepping out of a movie theater at noon. It took a moment for the eyes to adjust and see that I had gone full circle and was back in the narrow strip parking lot.