405 East

Evil Beaver: Rock Opera

2009-10-01T20:21:00.000-07:00

Evil Evie with smoked rough vocals and clenching electric bass guitar fronts a drummer, and that’s it, that’s the bass and bash band that is Evil Beaver. Make it ten years of spitting pissed-off juicy licks of metal, which include six albums and a recorded live performance in Switzerland, and in addition to this list of recordings is the newly compiled round-up of “Beaver fan favz from the 2000 thru 2007” entitled: “7 Yearz of Rock.” And there’s still more blowing out speakers on cakes to come as EB is set to release a new album.

And if you feel that you’re behind on their spirit of ill-tempered enlightenment, you can currently download all their music for Free! Check out their site at evilbeaver.us. Download and crank deaf the tunes into your ear canals and while you’re at it, get out to their live show!

As for me, there’s a soundtrack of my Evil Beaver favorites that unravels like a scattered thread of lingering thoughts. It started out as a chronological “greatest hits” of Evil Beaver, but then when placed in dramatic order, the music told instead a rather interesting yet abstract story. A sort of rock opera of mixed media imagery. Of course I took artistic liberties on my behalf in the interpretation of their music. My flow of consciousness floating within the frameworks of Evil Beaver yielded a strange output in which the final piece is a trip through the mad funhouse of reality. The sanity ends here.

The gauntlet drops. Scene opens. No hesitation. The raspy wrath of Evie screams, “Are you ready?!” No matter, she’s gonna consume your senses, now! “Whoz Who???” titles this first track. It’s a blaring warning sign to enter at your own risk. If you can’t handle the anarchy praise of questioning your identity gathered around burning shock voltage heart attack bass chords and auditory threshold drums that together composes Evil Beaver, then this intro is your chance to shut it off. Get out! Don’t precede any further. It just might be too much for a weak-minded person to handle. This is your last chance to scurry and run back to your mother’s cold nurturing arms. But if you’re angry enough, dirty filth attitude enough, and the world is badly trashed through your eyes, then this track is a radiating red neon sign of welcome.

Now you’re in. But who’re you? The second track, “Cracked,” attempts to reveal truth with an itch of sewn scars and permanent tattoos of pain. Damage never completely disappears. You could walk away, but the feelings can’t be swiped clean from the present. Reality behind you grows dimmer. Plug two silver spoons into sockets and give yourself electro shock therapy to the temples. This song does the same. Convulsions are necessary, the blackout occurs, and after awaking, the relationship is over. That is, until one decides to stick themselves back into that socket of life again. This kind of pain hurts, but somehow it feels good to see that the black painted walls closing-in sparkle at times like the night sky.

Track three comforts after the pain in a cynical sort of way, “Sonny Side Up.” It’s as tender as Evil Beaver is going to get, as it rains submissive with bass chords splashing snares around the repeating phrase: “If you don’t like the weather, you may wear a sweater.” But don’t be too quick to slip into that sweater of safety, unless you’re willing to reveal your desire to be in the comfort of “numb.” Protecting yourself from the elements, the insecurities, afraid of a little cold, afraid of exposing yourself, afraid of a little unexpected feeling is what that sweater will shield. Sweaters are for those that can’t handle the nippy, a slight frigid breeze, or any other freak climate change of emotion. Don’t give-in to this comfort. Let shivers sprout goose bumps. Enjoy the convoluted life-style of laughing in the rain and crying in the sun. Push forward with openness.

Then the serenity calms with an insomnia lullaby, “The Ballad of Sandy D Martino I.” A waking dream of a “blind man looking out the window.” What does he see? Is it real? What does it mean? The answer is obvious, or so it seems. Twisted reflections. A bad mix of medication, worries, coffee, and prescribed advertised reality erase the wall of what is seen and the delusion beyond. A body without energy to be free is still alive, but in what sense is it sane? The mind has a chance to come alive, regardless of whether the eyes are open or not. How awake are you?

But no time to pause and think when “Chokin’ the Pearl” injects adrenaline into the mind stream, jolting consciousness back into alertness. Tremble chords leak uneasy, then erupt like a busted damn conquering the stillness. Body recovers with a gushing onslaught of energy. The second wave has begun. The second act. Right when one thinks it is winding towards a direction, the sleepwalk life, the path gets spun and knotted with revived momentum. Breaking free. The mountain peak is reached. Making it through. Crawling on bleeding hands and scathed knees, but looking up to see the horizon makes all pain vanish into the vastness of the revitalizing view. You suddenly have found yourself anchored, yet leaning over the edge of the world, contemplating the thought below. You have reached enlightenment.

Yet, it becomes a frustrated insanity that won’t let you free, leaving yourself now “Under the Gun.” The peak has turned plateau. Song six. One reaches realization. Now what? The loudest yell without a sound. Communication breakdown. Continuous attempts to get others to see through their commercialized clouded minds. No use. “I’ve grown so tired of waiting.” The message repeats itself into a near redundancy. It lingers, impatient. Ravenous vocals and instruments emphasize the slip into insanity to pull the trigger. What’s with these people? They act so simple as they wear their luxury status symbols on their bodies, their baggage, sitting in their heated seats and touch screen environment. They shift with the trend. Think with the flow. They are nothing but a commercial dependent consumer wearing society’s costumes. The Evil Beaver sign protests, but there is nobody reading. The flag is burning, but nobody is feeling the conscious flame. They are the living undead, mummified by the single fabric of conformity that connects them all. This music attempts to unravel their thoughts to release their mind, but for many of those that follow in stride with others, Evil Beaver is just a muffled annoyance. Or possibly a joyride pill of temporary escape. No real change for others.

As these day people sleep, the awakened people rise in the dusk of “Night Dreamer.” Day and night collide. The “Darling” sleeper immerses himself in the dark shadows of dreamland while the awakened damsel looks upon her love. They are both human just the same, but live in different worlds. They lay in the same bed, but are of different minds. “We both feel the same, but at the same time we don’t feel the same.” Love is the universal connection, but until the sleeper awakes and shares his dreams with her, there is little chance of disturbing him, to express to him that his reality is just a dream, somebody else’s dream that she wants him to awaken from. This song rumbles like pent-up emotions that release under the sheets that only serve to pass the time. Nothing more. An explicit grotesque, yet tragic scene. It’s no use. You can’t save them.

SO, Fuck it! Break free from everything, entering into third act. Starting now. “Handz O’ Fate” deals. Normal has chosen to stay on the crumbling path of wealth ambitions that lead to the man-made false light. The American Dream. Happy pilled kids, the big house full of rush, the fancy cars, the corporate job, the endless debt, and a waiting casket as a reward for society’s successful duty performed. Fuck that! Bash societies senselessness with terrorizing bass attacks, bludgeoning drums, and poison slither fanged lyrics. No mercy. No antidote. Release the Evil Beaver epidemic. Seduction in appearances leading to a slit of infection. Diagnosis: fatal. A savior chance given earlier now burns like a scorned daemon. Acid digest those that wonder why you can’t be more subdued like them. They scorn you with envy for breaking accepted habits. They attempt to label you. Though they don’t know that insanity is just imagination without gravity. No restraint. “A day in the life of a suicidal whore.”

Pills and elevators attempt to restrain, though flowers without shit are nothing but dead petals. Life is a maze of mirrors for those that don’t question the self and society. And turning away only causes the seeing and revealing of the self-evident multiplied. Not accepting to find an independent path to follow confuses you more. Those that want to look away in bliss with mind malnourishment can take a tip from track nine, “Happy All the Time.” Think of truth as just a trap and become forever lost. “I wish I didn’t understand a single word that came from you and I’d be happy all the time . . . for a while” Knowing, yet having decided to close the mind with a bright-eyed smile while staring into the sun. Hear birds chirp a serenade. See the pattern in the clouds though there are none. Detach from what is real. Vacant behind eyes of sorrow in order to make your parent proud. Don’t understand. Don’t believe in yourself. Live among open blue skies of angels and dolphins. Tune truth out. Stay in line. Turn the self off. Your reflection disappears in the darkness. That’s where you are left when not accepting the knowledge. Alone with the others scratching up at the dirt, or so they think.

Then the end. The exit sign is ahead. This mind bender is coming to a close. A few last distraught lyrics of advice before departing. It’s time to head back down the mountain, back into society. Back to that little city of angels below that looks so peaceful from afar, though will quickly become erratic on closer approach. A kindly arm wraps with slight pressure around my shoulder leading me back into the streetlight smog. A mist of rain in the light as the rumbling bass of the distant night train is in sync tune with “Year of the Cookie.” New knowledge, new discoveries, what am I going to do with it? She tells me, “They’re different people, they’re not the same as you and I.” Do I forget or act upon it. I look up and ahead with a grinning smirk, then break a brief smile to the amber city. I know what I’ll do. The comforting arm slips to a push on the back and I’m gone.

Rock Opera Track Order:
Song (Album)

1.) Whoz Who??? (Enlightening Without Dazzling)

2.) Cracked (In The Spirit of Resilient Optimism)

3.) Sonny Side Up (Pleased 2 Eat You)

4.) The Ballad of Sandy D. Martino I (Lick It)

5.) Chokin’ The Pearl (Lick It)

6.) Under The Gun (Modelz of Virtue)

7.) Night Dreamer (In The Spirit of Resilient Optimism)

8.) Handz O’ Fate (In The Spirit of Resilient Optimism)

9.) Happy All The Time (In The Spirit of Resilient Optimism)

10.) Year of the Cookie (Lick It)

Chapter 8: Beware Fashionable Women

2009-01-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

Chapter 8: Beware Fashionable Women

Chrisleen didn’t know what to make of it when her boyfriend of five months slid the slim cardboard-sleeved album across the table to her and said: “I’ll be the D.J. And you’re the main attraction, honey.”

They had just finished a grandiose meal of clam chowder appetizer that was a little too lukewarm and fishy for her, followed with Alaskan lobster tail that was a little too chewy for her, a baked potato that was too starchy for her diet, and ending with a lemon cream cake that was a bit too tangy sweet. All this because she had turned down the usual salad, because she wanted to try something different tonight. What a choice. Not to mention the fire pit she didn’t want to sit near because it was too warm, and the swiveling window she wanted closed because the ocean breeze was too breezy and the seagulls standing attentive for food outside on the ledge scared her. Only the white wine, which she had two glasses more than moderately full, pleased her. Dinning with her man, Nash, might have been the only other pleasure as well.

It was a Wednesday night and the two had met around eight for a dinner at a cozy dim restaurant right off Pacific Coast Highway in Santa Monica, a deceptively rickety and peeling baby blue faded shack of a place that served some of the best seafood on the coast. Chrisleen and Nash were celebrating their five month anniversary, or so the reason. Their anniversary was actually the upcoming Saturday, but Chrisleen had a photo shoot booked that day and wasn’t sure when the shoot would wrap. It wasn’t actually a photo shoot, but more of a modeling audition with different ranges of photography, if she qualified. She made it too complicated for Nash to understand (though he was a photographer himself, but not in the specific field). All through the confused conversation, Chrisleen squirmed in her seat, itching around the new tattoo she had recently gotten above her ass crack that was now peeking out over her low cut jeans. It was the first of many body marking she would soon have. The rest of her body was the figure of a Calvin Klein goddess model in capri jeans and wearing only a snug white ribbed tank top that held her bulging firmness in its perfect place, though obscurely revealing the nub on the hill. Her black gloss needle nose high heels pinned the carpet as she made Hawaiian fruit basket colored silk shirted old men stare over the shoulders of their elderly wives, crossing eye paths with young jealous glittery dressed women turning to see what distraction their boyfriend or date were disposed of during that longing moment that wasn’t for them. Though her style was slightly off with cupped shoulder length gloss black hair that curled above her shoulders in resemblance more towards a helmet than a hairstyle, still, Chrisleen was definitely considered a fashionable woman, a walking billboard that almost everybody couldn’t pass without some type of notice.

“And stop itching that tattoo,” Nash finally mentioned. He was annoyed with that little monarch butterfly and its tribal markings that kept fluttering up her thoughts the whole evening, among other things.

“I’m supposed to be putting lotion on it,” she said, “but I left it in my car.”

“You have that ten gallon Louis Vuitton sitting next to you and you left the lotion in your car?”

“If want to be sweet, sweetie, you’d go get it for me.”

“We’ll be leaving soon.”

“So, is this my anniversary gift?” she said. “This CD?” She held the sleeve like holding a dead fish by the tail. She turned her head to look at the cover. “Or is it a DVD?” Chrisleen was somewhat educated underneath her glitz. “This is Audrey Hepburn, isn’t it?” she said. A red skinned Audrey Hepburn, with arms cut-off, centered the cover in black dress standing eloquent between dotted line white silhouette cutouts of her figure doubling on each side.

“It’s a CD, Chrisleen.”

“Beware Fashionable Women” she read on the cover. “Are you sure this is not one of her movies?” The Hepburn image was from her film, Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

“No, Chrisleen, it’s an album,” he said. “Beware Fashionable Women is the name of an independent band from Sherman Oaks.”

“Never heard of them,” she said. She shrugged her shoulders and dropped the album lost in her bag; totally dismissing the obvious band name that Nash thought was also a fitting label for her. Instead, she asked: “Is there anything else?”

“Maybe next month, Chrisleen.” replied Nash. “Saving up for a big one next month. Next month.” Nash knew better to say less and didn’t reveal more. “Listen to the album and you’ll find out.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened to blue scuffed cue balls. “Like something from Sherman Oaks Galleria? A big six month anniversary surprise? Like a nice one-hour spa treatment and a new handbag?” She suddenly dug into her purse as if she thought there was a roll of cash flattened in that album sleeve. “If that the case, I’m gonna listen to it when I get to my car.”

“On the way to your audition meeting tonight, right?” It didn’t sound right at all hearing himself reiterate her excuse she explained earlier. This was a different late audition from the one on Saturday. Two different shoots, too much to explain the nuances of why it was at a photographer’s ocean side abode in Malibu.

Chrisleen was too distracted to notice Nash’s monotone sarcasm. She was too involved with looking over the album cover again like it was a winning ticket to Hawaii. She tossed her eyes up at Nash. “Your so sweet,” she said. She leaned across the table grazing her chest over their half-eaten sea food and creaming a spot of desert on the tip of her shirt, and gave Nash a delectable soft suckle that make somebody’s glass explode fifty feet away at the bar. Nash pulled away when he heard the shattering.

The two parted ways when they reached Chrisleen’s boxy, lipstick red lust, 325i Beamer coupe that was a little dusty on the pretty, but flawless as the 1991 year when it had first hit the showrooms, except for that seeping fuel line that she couldn’t afford to get repaired, if she ever noticed.

In her back seat, 8 by 10 photos of her in an arrangement of colors and poses were scattered about, most of them oddly creased, while others had cue stick sized holes. Nash noticed, but it didn’t matter to him anymore. Even if it did, Chrisleen would have had a fondling excuse that he would have to accept.

She gave him a quick peck goodbye before she explained that she was already late for her appointment. Nash smiled in return, not showing any of his gritting teeth. Chrisleen scratched the bottom of her back with an edge of the album sleeve before she slid into her escape.

The last part he saw of her was through the glass sunroof to view her delicate French tipped fingers pull out the CD and slide it into the center console as she tried to back-out at the same time, nearly driving the side view mirror into his gut. She didn’t notice that, either. When she drove away, Nash did notice that one of her taillights wasn’t working.

It was still early, a quarter to nine, as Nash returned to the bar and was poured a Patron and lime on the rocks. He slid his last hundred-dollar bill in front of him, which would eventually dwindle to nothing but tip before he left.

Meanwhile, Chrisleen was already bobbing her head to the first track of the CD as she turned onto Pacific Coast Highway heading north. She was ready to decipher the message to figure out what next month’s anniversary surprise would be. The big one. Nash knew she would figure it out from the ten-track album. She wasn’t as idiot as she was beautiful, which was part of the reason their relationship had lasted as he kept dreaming, willing to play gullible, until tonight.

The opening track was a jumpy tune, having The Beach Boys like upbeat surf guitar sun rays curling into ocean waves with a do-op backing chorus. She was really warming into it as she cruised along the dark ocean coast that was spotted with dreamy beachfront property she imagined herself in someday, with her future husband, the owner, of course. But as much as she was not thinking about Nash, there was one repeating line in this song that struck her like those continuous smashing waves in the distance: “This is rock bottom . . . This is rock bottom . . . This is rock bottom . . . ” Chrisleen was definitely not thinking diamonds. The song continued to poke: “just because you bleed doesn’t mean you’re human.” Her pencil thin eyebrows scrunched as her eyes drew sharp. She was a bit confused. She looked at the CD cover that titled this first song: “Rock Bottom.”

Next song was titled “Obligatory Tattoo,” which made it clear and obvious where this album was heading. Guitar and bass chords became ominous, thicker, enter piano keys trembling, swelling underneath in the emotion, much like Chrisleen’s nerves, clenching. James Bond shooting gun barrel to blood beginning. She would soon realize that Nash was taking continuous aim at her in such a fashion, with each song an attack. The song entered into a swing beat, a tap dance on the piano with charm in the vocals that seem to smile lyrics of harsh disgust in tattoos, especially hers, the obligatory tribal fashionable butterfly. Thinking about it made the tattoo itch. As she attempted to scratch around the darn thing, forgetting to lotion it, she jerked the steering wheel to maneuver a curve in the rocky hillside but in doing so, swayed towards oncoming headlights. Both hands grabbed the wheel into control with more than efficient time to avoid the collide. She sighed relief as she curved around the hill, then insulted some graffiti she saw on a rock.

“Found” then started off easy like a lazy Corona sunset, allowing her heart rate to settle, a little. She was still listening as the lyrics eased: “Drink you like water…Breath you like air…” beginning romantic enough, until it completed with “Our chemistry puts a hole in the atmosphere.” The Beach Boys blossoming warmth instantly died within her. Now she sensed the up-tempo, down beat cyanide sarcastic cynicism with simple thought lyrics, similar to that of Weezer. But this band added a gruesome touch with: “there’s blood leading from the bathroom to your bedroom door.” Suicide, perhaps. “Found the blood on the bedroom floor.” That was Nash’s blatant touch of wishful thinking, thought Chrisleen. Disgust fumes rose inside her. Angered. She cranked open the window to relieve her short breath constricted lungs of convulsive fury. Her blood pulse rocketed much like this song near its end, as if somebody opened the door and gasped at her death. Then Nash’s laughter as he looked down upon her. Chrisleen’s hair tornadoed wildly in the night air. “As if.” She wrung tight the steering wheel wishing it was his neck.

She didn’t want to listen anymore and tried to turn off the stereo, but the knobs spun into her hands. She tried to eject the CD, but it was stuck, change it to radio, but no luck, the stereo did not comply. She scorned at the thing: “Fuck you, Nash!”

She mashed the pedal screaming out of Palisades Beach and peeling into Topanga, passing under yellows turning red and zagging around wandering cars cruising the easy current of the night air. Chrisleen was on fire to make Nash pay dearly for what he was doing to her. She was going to give that photographer an enlivening night, thanks to Nash’s antics. She was just sculpted meat to them anyway, and tonight she was going to let the photographer season her to his every fantasy. That would get Nash tilted, she thought. She did not know that the photographer, Mr. F. Rodgers, would not tolerate such an insult, which would inevitably destroy Chrisleen’s rising credibility in the fashion industry, leaving her only to the homemade bedroom video market.

As Chrisleen lost her mind to this unscrupulous revenge, the song “Girls On Fire” flickered guitars, a blissful chorus, and swayed seemingly consoling vocal flames to “set all the girls on fire.” It was as warped and delightful as Chrisleen’s giddy face. What happens to anger when insanity glee sets in? “Help me set all the world’s girls (on fire) so that I could be alone.” The song and Chrisleen were tangled in a twisted convoluted dream reality. An obvious asylum package on spinning wheels, head to stereo.

Her body felt a moment of weightlessness as the Beamer bumped over a hill, then caught the road again, forcing the downhill momentum to speed the automobile sixty-eight miles per hour around another curve. The number flashed LCD red above the posted 45 mile per hour speed limit sign. She didn’t care. She was going with it without breaks and handling the bends masterfully. That was until blue and red lights spun bright in her rearview mirror and reflected onto her dilating owl eyes. She slammed the breaks, swerved, regained control, and eased to a stop near a rockslide warning sign. “Your Allegiance” was playing. The drums popped strong, the guitars tore like a Jimi Hendrix inspired anthem and the electric keys played in sync to the flashing lights of the patrol car pulling to a stop behind the Beamer. A bright spotlight lit and jerked towards the driver’s side, reflecting off the Beamer’s side mirror into Chrisleen’s face. As the patrol car’s door clicked open and a black boot stepped to the gravel, the song in the Beamer repeated: “Your allegiance is required.”

Chrisleen turned the key and shut down the car, killing the music as well. The officer approached as a growing silhouette in the white light. Chrisleen casually pulled a brush out of her bag with one hand and pulled down the visor mirror with the other. She started to brush her scattered hair; black hair that was dyed too thick to get tangled and only needed a bit of taming to reset into that curved helmet form. She tossed her brush aside and licked her lips to give them a little gloss. She was ready for him.

“License and registration, please,” said the uniformed patrol officer. He was leaning into the window with his flat brim hat that he quickly removed and set to his chest when he saw her stretching her white shirt down to reveal deeper cleavage over twin curvatures. When he shyly blushed a glance below her face, she knew that she had got him, but wasn’t certain. She cautiously caressed her hand over his bristly cheek and continued down. The officer did not restrain her movements. He stood up and leaned crossed arms on the roof of the car and thought things over.

When she was done, the officer kindly decided not to write her a ticket. And if he were cocky enough to do so, she would blackmail him for whatever he was worth, for she would always remember his tarnished wedding ring and the scar he had on his left inner thigh.

Soon it was over, the red and blue twirling ceased, the spotlight dimmed into darkness, and the patrol car slowly grumbled off the gravel, made a u-turn, and vanished. Chrisleen rolled up the window to shut out his world. She wiped her lips dry.

She started up the car and the music continued right where it had left off, saluting proud: “Your allegiance is required …You know we’re doing this for you, whether or not you want us to.” Chrisleen cracked into tears. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore. For once, she felt lost. She realized her way of pleasuring men to sway her way was not much of a promising plan. It would only last so long. And whatever she had at the end of it all would not be considered an achievement, not in the way she wanted it, at least.

The Beamer continued north towards its destination, though the driver was no longer going to engage in that earlier thought of seduction. She had had enough when she realized how low she let herself become just to get out of a ticket, whether it would have been a DUI or reckless driving, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t what she wanted to do all through her career to survive. Her changing her mind at that moment actually saved her career, as mentioned Mr. F. Rodgers was not that type of artist. This photo shoot might now actually turn out great for her, a true business partnership and connections to other serious professionals of the same sort.

All the while the guilty inner song of “The Great Corruptor (of Youth)” was playing over her thoughts with an imprisoned force of electrocuting guitars, damming drums, and a lyrical jester exalting introductions to an alter conscious authority that slammed her boost in self-confidence and beat it into nothing but more tears by resounding harshness like: “I’ll keep you begging,” “You’re not ready,” “I give you value,” and the one that made her gut wrench when she heard: “I am inside you.”

Chrisleen wanted to change at that moment but this song stuck in her mind, which soon convinced her that she had no other alternative, she was trapped in her nature to use her seduction for gain. She really wasn’t going to change after all. Even if she did, it would only be temporary, like holding her breath or not blinking. She had corrupted herself, and knew of no other quick way to get what she wanted without using her sex appeal. She felt she had no sure talent without it. She didn’t want to wait, hope, and struggle like most. The only other choice for her was to raise cock-fighting roosters on her parent’s deep woods shack back home in Arkansas. Nobody knew about that branch of her life, not even her new accent. Life is reborn and previous acquaintances are forgotten when you come for fame in Los Angeles. The media industry lures dreamers out here and then often crushes hope into harsh reality.

She now felt imprisoned in her own body, stuck following a wicked path she couldn’t stray from, like the highway that forced her to keep between the lines. She didn’t want that and squealed the wheel to the right, bumping over roadside rocks, then pounced to the left, crossing the double-yellow line into oncoming traffic again. A set of approaching headlights were a ways down, but she let them approach until a moment before a bend in the road, then looked at the stereo and jerked herself back into the lane of life. It was the calm, gentle sunset, palm tree swaying sound of “I’ll Be The DJ" that convinced her to stay strong a little longer, seeming to understand her frustration as the vocals floated in: “You drive the car like a woman on a mission” and soon relating, “I guess that’s just how you express your aggression as you drive the car in the wrong direction.” This was sung on perfect cue seconds before the possible collide as if Nash and BFW were there to save her life.

This song was about an angry girlfriend at the wheel and her boyfriend, sitting passenger, being the D.J. The music spoke his mind, for there was no way of communicating with her in regular conversation, much like tonight, the music was speaking Nash’s mind to Chrisleen. “You won’t listen, so I’ll let the music speak for me…”

Her mind started to settle, saddened, as she looked at the empty seat next to her. Nash was there now. Chrisleen almost moved her Louis Vuitton to the back seat in order for Nash to have some extra leg room. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out her cell phone. She wanted to call him and apologize for everything, anything, to listen, but the phone was too heavy to ask to be worth that much. What was happening to her, she did not know, but held dearly in thought to the song’s gruesome romantic suggestion of: “I wish you’d crash the car into the nearest cedar tree. The force will fuse your skin and mine into our seats. And when they find us, your body would be apart of me. We’d be together for the rest of all eternity.” It was fortunate that Nash wasn’t there or the two would already be mush and metal in the rocky bluff below. Chrisleen wasn’t about to do it alone and die alone.

“I didn’t know you were so fragile, but I’m the asshole. I didn’t think you’d break so easily” began the next song called “Parade.” She thought it was Nash’s voice, sensitive and heart, lamenting from the stereo. She listened to it intently, as if it was a personal message from him, by him, like he’d come to plead forgiveness for the cruel trick he was playing on her, as if this practical joke was over and he wanted to end it with a parade float of pink flowers and happy laughter. She started to smile and sway her head to the rainbow shine beat and imagined Nash on a floral float of merriment coming around a crowd filled corner under a blue sky sun with balloons drifting like the joyful rhythm of the tune. He takes Chrisleen’s hand lifting her aboard the float as it passes, to be together, and show their love in hand waves and blowing kisses to the crowd. A marriage parade, maybe? By the end of the song, the thought was wilted dead, nothing more than a busted garbage bag spilling dead grass and brown leaves. The song was just about a broken guitar.

She couldn’t breathe steady to this mean revelation. The burdening weight of a heavy chained heart was collapsing on her lungs. Tears fell as she gasped to defibrillate her breath. She pulled the car over, stepped out, crossed the road, and stood at the rocky edge of a bluff. She was at the edge of Malibu. The door was left open and the tender acoustic guitar and choir chorus beginning of “Courage” played loud. This was actually an inspirational song that made her step back from stepping off. Between somber verses of self let downs, she could relate with the rising uplifting chorus: “But you’ll be so impressed with my courage. And you’ll think that I am so brave. Courage to be some one else, somewhere deep inside myself. Courage to find happiness...” Chrisleen wouldn’t let this song turn sour on her. She only heard what she wanted to hear, the positive. Chrisleen just wanted to get rid of the hurt, not her life. This song made her spread wide smiling teeth to the sea. Her overworked body and mind was cooling down to the ocean air. Soon, she started to get cold shivers and hurried back to the car.

Chrisleen looked at the clock on the dash and saw that she was beyond late. She punched the gas kicking gravel. She drove and dialed, trying to call the photographer, but her phone signal kept dropping. She toggled the cell phone in one hand and steered with the other. Her eyes oscillated from road to watching for signal bars. There was a quiet pause in the music before the final song. That’s when she heard something trickle on her sunroof. She glanced up and saw a rainfall of rocks shower from above and now falling over her windshield. The last thing she saw through the dust clouded headlights was a falling elephant that she swerved to avoid, but couldn’t. The gray bolder hit the BMW broadside and spun the vehicle over the rocky edge. It was a hundred and twenty-three feet tumble to the dead brown brush bottom where the crippled car slammed to a stop.

The ocean waves were out of reach, but sounded like radio static in Chrisleen’s mind as she regained consciousness, barely. She slumped her head back and nearly impaled it on the broken rod headrest. Her head slid away to the side instead. Red.

Then a baby elephant exploded her back windshield, causing the CD to spin loud the final song: “The Big Yellow.”

This jingle was slow, like a Bing Crosby swinging on the moon in a Sesame Street or Muppets show tune with puppet stars having puffy smiles singing the chorus of aahs as they swing side to side in unison to the sparkling tempo. It’s about being given all the stars, but still greedy for “the big yellow,” and when one does get the sun, that person gets burned. A nice little anecdote and lesson to be learned. But a lesson too late for Chrisleen as she soon found her car in the middle of a burning Ring Of Fire. The hay like brush had caught a spark from something under the hood and the gasoline line that tore open fueled the embers into a blaze. She was stuck, unable to open her crunched door, and no strength in her even if she could. And the dash had smashed her legs, but she couldn’t feel them, and didn’t notice. She tried to use her cell phone but it still had no service. Instead, she used it to scratch around her tattoo she didn’t want to ruin. All the while, the happy puppet tune continued to sunshine sway like the licking flames outside her window.

Meanwhile, Nash stumbled from his seat at the bar, never moving since the first drink of Patron and lime. He had a grin on his face from a tickling feeling that suddenly overwhelmed his body. Something had happened, and that something was good for Nash. He burst a laugh, then quickly imprisoned it into an amusing cough. He looked around to see if anybody noticed his burst of madness. Nobody did. His wildly grin kept contained as he exited the restaurant. The night was too dark for Nash to notice the distant plume of smoke breathing inland. Nobody would notice until digging it out in the morning.

The Growlers - Greatest sHits

2009-01-19T04:20:00.000-08:00

Band: The Growlers
Album: Greatest Hits

The Growlers’ Greatest Hits emerge like a placid pale moon rising in a bruised black and blue night sky that crushes the tropical guava and peach horizon behind green tea seas frothing to cream over brown sugar sands. Dead on arrival. Overdose. But thrilling while it lasted.

It’s a 25 song album with 78 minutes of sound sensations. Intoxication for the ear canals. “Listen to it while smokin’ some weed,” said the band member that sold it to me at one of their shows. It’s sort of 60’s acid psychedelics meets recorded pot jam session that are good enough to be smoked mellow to afterwards, too. Songs to watch the exhale of cotton mouth candy fluff stretch and dissolve into nothingness before the eyes. Let black pupils swell and float in red veined rivers. The feeling of the beach is only present to enhance the image of relaxation and setting tensions free. No worries, for now. I have no green to bowl for this night, but instead, cut off the rolled end tip of a cigar to moist in my mouth and puff through the album. It will last. It will relax and do the job just fine. So, now begins the journey through this pestilent pot pie…

“Golden Vine” sets the tone of the weird madness that’s about to incur, like stepping through the red curtains of Madam Moselle’s gypsy settlings. An orator with seeming origins from an archival broadcast commercial cues in with the wonderful effects of fine wine. Stay easy and ease into the sensation. A safe tasty introduction step into the slippery slope of drug life. A dry rusted carnival merry-go-round organ of instability and fright creeps into the end of the tune. But the ride has only begun.

Into the wandering dancing rhythm of “Barnacle Beat” comes a scene of grey market dealings turning black. A bazaar of misfortune that is for sale, for a price. Come one, come all. The loudspeaker sells it like a stage show. Watch for the man that will “smoke with his feet.” Getting it anyway he can. Then letting “Big Wednesday” ride him into an instrumental high.

The ascent sinks deep below, into the hidden caverns for “Old 8 Legs.” Grab hold, take a thick breath, let good ol’ poppy take care of ya’ through the “Red Tide” night of hallucinations swelled with inanimate objects breathing to life. Is it real what the eyes do see? In the night it just might be. The myth comes alive in the ripple of the tides. Illusions? More than a few have seen it to be true. A lax tune that slowly rises into a wave curl that then settles into the trickling tickle pip of “The Cobblestone Creep.”

But what a sunset blossom bursts in “Sunset Girl.” A luau goddess, grass skirt hips swaying like a hypnotic bronze pendulum, a petite ukulele held close playing, so adorable and yet sensual. But on closer inspection she’s a girl that only raises the shades at night to see the moon spotlight her room she never leaves, rolling a Zig-Zag filled with her only happiness. She seems to be a part of “Freedom Children” that are free only when they are lit in their demise, shackled by shriveled brains and drug veins. A chain gang clanking sound with repeating verses of doomed hope. Clank. Dying spirit.

Then a coal miner’s pick ax working the hallows of a cave in sync with a jazz piano and mellow guitar play into “Slack Back Boot Man.” Seeking something stronger, more potent, digging further into darkness. Straight to the core. Life is too fast. Make it slow, laid back. Love for women has turned to drugs. The ladies are too much reality, too much high pitched drama. A life necessity, but quickly forgotten when lost in one’s own soothing chemical void. Fondness for drugs is the only true romance, now. Forgetting life. With melted brain one becomes a gurgling and blabbering “Mad Dad the Crusty Crab.” With shakes and rattles and squawking like a duck in an attempt to communicate. Sizzling brain cells spill with gurgling drool. Wha-? What’s there not to understand? Quack-quack.

While “Soul of Coral” creeps up like a defenseless voodoo female seduction layered half-naked in beads lurking in shadowy fog floating along a cobble stone alley as ghostly plumes with black hole eyes hover and circle around. It’s a pleasing mystical image, but the outcome can’t possibly be good. Like the natural beauty of coral or a slender moist jellyfish, so delicate, and yet so harmful to clench.

Turn flash switch the scene again to trotting along a dusty trail, escaping on your old faithful to the “Conquered Sun.” As it gets closer to the end of the trail, the trod becomes a gallop, hope is near. Home is there. Turn to the light. Reach. The overdose will not take me this time. My own strength and strong will see me through. Awake! Alive.

But still under lock in a soldier’s march, uniform, rigid, by “Her Command.” Orders burst like a trumpet as the craving soon returns. I have to conform, I’m addicted. But the injection keeps me feeling free, though she owns me, controls me. I clench you tight, but it is still I that slips. Unable to raise my head to you. I will never leave her until my final fade away. Dependency is what keeps me returning. Need to steal to pawn for cash to buy her every ounce. Nothing left of me when there’s nothing left of her. Each time.

With all the time to trip. Going places. The backdrop falls us in a foreign land of artistic oddities and ambient quirks and looms when “We Think France Sounds Like This.” Goofballs and assorted chemicals packaged as pills carry on luggage like this. Romp and room on the road, lullabied to sleep by a violin weep. Like floating down a river street, or is that a Venice canal? It’s all the same anyway, all beautiful, wondrous, strange. Next is an interlude in the swamp with “Swamp Stomp,” reminding me of a Reading Rainbow episode with LaVar “Trek” Burton reading a story book of an animal swamp band playing the swamp, “Mamma Don’t Allow” based on the song of same name. Those kid days of summer inside watching all those learned shows to learn all that stuff I no longer remember, except for that swamp band playing the swamp, “chicka-bomp-bomp.” Give me my rabbit weed! Down to the last destination that is no other than the escape refuge and discarded refuse known as “Tijuana.” An echo of “waste and dreams” tumbleweed down these devil bitten streets. Prostitution for survival? Uncertain if one sees it or not, the little children make me cry. I blank my mind to the situation, like turning off the television.

I instead ponder about “Lenny Sinpablo Juliano 36th,” which is a Robert Johnson tin can recording sounding tune, rickety nostalgic. A song of hope and rehab, perhaps? Broken bottles bringing broken promises. There’s even a feel of Dylan in this one. A rehearsal horse around. God gives you life for free, but it’s up to you to make it worth something. Think about that while the waves lap in “My Forehead’s Dripping Ocean” for thirty-eight seconds.

Cease thinking. Now rise up in chanting praise to moonshine and homegrown pleasure products with an “Oh, Sweet Spirit.” Raise a jug to the bootleggers for an ode to captured white lightning in a jar. Nows git sum mo’ potaters ‘n’ gits backs ta workings. Moonshine my mind and let the glycerin explode through my limbs, for I am nothing but a wasted “Average Man.” Problems of being normal, one of the regulars, another jingle that sounds like the others, but with a slight extra average busybody bit to it. A rushed song, like pop life, downtown society, and the average person, always hurrying to something, always late, especially late to the realization that they are just like the others. Drink your Starbucks and turn your eyes bliss. Now get back to work and make somebody else rich.

The opposite of society is to be a wanderer, free from attachments, no roots taking hold, “No Trees Grow in the Desert” is the philosophy. Become the desert or the ocean shore: open, vast, and unending. Given to all, but owned by nobody. Jack Kerouac. Neither here nor there, but everywhere. America and abroad his home. You’re only free when you are a part of everything, held down by nothing. Acoustic.

One thing you might want to hold onto though is precious life. “Killed My Woman” is a story of relationships yelling to pieces and death from unnatural causes. A country folk jingle of a tune, twang with a Levi’s denim slapping tempo. Killed her before she killed me, and that’s the way the song goes. Another relationship flipped fatal. Those possessive psychos. No real way to escape them, if you daringly decide to break-up. Looking down the end of her 12-guage barrel of love. Forever hers, she takes your life. Unless she misses and then you claim self-defense when she is found sprawled.

Regardless, Momma always wants what’s best for her children, though not always knowing best as in “Jonesy’s Bowl.” A quick anecdote sung over shaking beans, soft claps, and strumming strings. Mama doesn’t know that what she thinks is happiness, is really just a bitch with an empty bowl. She has the wrong understanding impression of butterflies. The husband being the main cause of that. Now she wishes the same upon her child, not knowing what she is truly asking. Is that food for thought? Twisted.

Cut off. You’re in the anus. “Johnson’s Gone.” Eighteen minutes of entrails into paranoia insanity. Mind gaps fill with unwanted imaginations, magnified. Byproduct of the drug. The fear. What’s over my shoulder? Somebody is watching, I feel it, I swear. Who is it? Who’s there? Did they see me do what I just did? They couldn’t have. I was very precise in hiding every fact. Satellite vision through my window. They know, but they wait, wait, holding steady, until I crack and confess. Madness confusion fills my mind like an expanding balloon, stretching, stretching, until, until, no, no, I won’t! It pulses through my limbs, fingertips trembling. Sweat. I wipe wet on wet. Alien in my own body. Get it out of my veins. Control? What control? Shut up! Mind won’t shut up! I want out! Now! Out! Out!

Wham! Spit! Plunk. I break free into precious blue skies as I float safely on a puffy, fluffy, white cloud all mine. Open air deep breathe dreamland. A peaceful chime gently twirling with rainbow dazzle is my caress. The journey is at an end when I make it to this vision of “Magic Castle.” The star light in the darkness is reached when the eye lids slide shut. All is well. Sleep. Tomorrow the sun will rise beautiful. And I’ve made sure my blinds are shut tight. Album ends.

That night I had a running nightmare that may have likely been brought upon by the chill night’s concoction of a cigar and this pulp rock of The Growlers.

To Be Continued…

Chapter II : Temporary Salvation

2009-01-17T01:28:00.000-08:00

Chapter II:
Temporary Salvation at Silverlake Lounge

The purpose of the night was to review an independent music show in Los Angeles; covering shows had become a personal hobby that I was hoping to stem into some type of journalism career, each review supposedly serving as another writing sample in my portfolio. The venue tonight was Silverlake Lounge on Sunset, a little dive bar less than a mile east from the Hollywood freeway. I had to cruise solo on this one; my buddy Nash was visiting a girl in Chicago. My only equipment was a pack of cigarettes, hoping to meet and smoke with a few band members outside.

So, there I was driving down Sunset on a cool Thursday night in October in 2007, listening to Expulsion Dropouts, which was one of the local bands scheduled to perform. I had written to them weeks prior in request to review one of their shows; in return, they sent me a four song EP and placed me on the guest list.

Expulsion Dropouts has a music box time capsule feel, lyrical imagery of high school highlight years of friends and regrets that have long since been left to memories, I said myself, trying to attempt criticism and land the white shuttle.

This wasn’t the busy Hollywood Sunset strip of lights, traffic, and meters; rather this was the dimmer side of Sunset, a calmer residential area, the Silverlake district. I pulled into a free parking spot across the street from the bar. There was a free parking lot next to the place, but only had about twenty parking spots, if that. Either way, parking was not a problem around these parts, unless you were a band. There were incidents where bands would park their vans on the street and return to find their windows busted and equipment dwindled to a few guitar picks and shredded cables. What kind of mother deprived degenerate would do such a thing? I asked myself. Steal my television, take my PlayStation, heck, you can even jack my car, but don’t go stealing somebody’s dream. Must be for the drugs. For some reason I thought about this while I waited to cross the street, noticing broken glass in the watery gutter.

The front of the lounge resembled a cross between a red barn and an old wood panel and stone tavern. A long yellow sign with black lettering, stretched end to end, about thirty-five feet wide, read the can’t miss: SILVERLAKE LOUNGE

A purple corner cafe next door called Café Tropical, supposedly served a mean cup of Cuban coffee until 10pm. Didn’t get a chance to try a cup. I was late for the first band that was scheduled to begin at 8:30. It was already 9.

Door cover tonight was $8. Other nights were often free for local music Mondays to weekends with Latino drag queens. As with any bar, this event was 21+. I mentioned my name and the band to the door attendant, got a gecko stamp on the wrist for ins-and-outs, and was released inside for free.

Nobody was playing, only speaker music, the place empty with about ten people scattered. The interior wasn’t much: a wide tar coated corridor it seemed; to the left was a black top linoleum bar stretching to rear lined with button stools and bottled beer at $4 domestic, $5 import, only Budweiser on tap, and measured mix drinks starting at $7; on the opposite side of the open path were tall circle tables with a choice of more button stools or a high bench edge jutting from the wall that felt like sitting on a shelf, feet dangling. This place looked as if a contractor started to build a proper bar, but ultimately skipped out and force finished by a do-it-yourself owner with a can of black paint and a few planks of wood and nails. Either that or the place was burned and being gutted for remodeling while continuing with their regular shows.

At the end of this minimalist bar and seating was the intimate stage with its legendary lights of “SALVATION.” The arched bubble bulb sign hung above and behind the performers, a perfect photo opportunity to trademark the moment. Never really thought what it meant beyond the definition, but the word exalting high and bright gave a sense of inner peace, the light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe this place represented a dark path connecting the outer city to the inner sanctum of escape and deliverance by way of music. Spotlights shined on a patterned rug that served as the stage, which seemed to hover a foot off the ground prepared for a magical carpet ride fueled by the band. In my thoughts strange notions such as these seem to abound when trying to read the scene for meaning beyond its appearance.

I hopped on a button stool at the end of the bar closest to the radiant stage and ordered from one of the two friendly Hispanic male bartenders, “A tequila 7-Up,” I said.

The bartender placed a tube glass on the counter and mixed a layered concoction of red, a shot of tequila, orange juice from a 20oz. twist top container that could have been from his lunch bag, dropped in a cherry, and stuck it done with a red straw.

“What did I ask for?” I asked the bartender. This was often the confusion in loud bars when I ordered drinks that don’t have the familiarity of saying “Corona” or simply pointing to the desired beer on tap. I always welcomed it though, to try something new.

“Tequila Sunrise,” he said. “That’s what you say, right?”

“I ordered tequila 7-Up,” I replied, “but if this has tequila, I’ll take it.”

He smiled and nodded. “Do you want lime?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, waving my hand over the glass. I removed the straw and paid him cash, the only method of payment in this bar.

I sipped my drink and surveyed the surroundings. The unattended equipment for the first band was already set-up on the carpet. “Big Bomb Blam!” was the exploding band’s name on their kick drum. But nothing was happening, so I took a walk around.

Expulsion Dropouts had a back table filled with pins, stickers, CDs, other merchandise, and a mailing list. Most of it wasn’t free, but nobody was there, making it appear that the display was being guarded with the honor system. I sipped my Sunrise and rummaged through the items for a while, hoping that one of the band members would show; I wanted to meet them and thank them.

I returned to a seat at the bar without seeing them. I waited, swiveling every so often to see if anybody was there. I had corresponded with the one girl in the group. Her name was May. She could have been lingering around, but I only had a few pictures to go on from their website, meaning that any of the slender, straight-haired brunettes could have been her.

There was one slender, straight-haired brunette wearing a pastel blue pinstripe outfit that resembled a school teacher from the 1950’s. She definitely looked like a musician ready for a show, standing out with unique style, talking around as people approached her, but she never went by the merchandise table. Though she seemed interesting, I decided not to wait in the introduction line to meet her.

I finished my drink and went to the restroom that was down the hall around the back corner. On the wall, between the men’s and women’s restroom doors, was a poster of tonight’s show. The image on the flyer was a hidden camera disguised as a brick. Big brick is watching 1984, I thought. Well, nobody was watching now, so I gently peeled it from the wall and took into the empty restroom.

The back of the poster had four spots of rolled industrial tape, likely used by the band for securing cables to the floor. The tape and poster was too bulky to fold and stick in my pocket. I attempted to remove the tape, but when I peeled the adhesive, the poster shredded. Damn! I slapped the scrap on the toilet wall and pissed.

I went out for a smoke on the sidewalk. Contemplation brewed to try the coffee at Café Tropical, but I wasn’t sure how blood shot my complexion was from that first drink. My skin usually turned a birthmark scattered red at the first drop of alcohol, then returned pale when the alcohol consumption hit a steady flow. I pressed a finger on my arm and it left a white print, indicating that the alcohol was taking its early effect. The cafe had blinds drawn shutting out my view and seemed too bright to comfortably enter and order with tequila breath. Instead, I watched a band load gear inside the bar like a train of systematic working ants. They carted in drums, guitar cases, keyboards, cables and stands, but nothing identified which band they were. I waited until their back-and-forth trail disappeared inside for the last time. The sidewalk returned to calm. Other smokers were observing and waiting for the band to pass as well. I spit my cigarette butt and went inside.

My feet locked mid-stride when I noticed a slender, straight-haired pretty brunette wearing a sleeveless black slim dress with red fish net stockings sitting on the bench at the Expulsion Dropouts’ merchandise table; she was one of the busy ants loading in gear. She had to be May or possibly somebody managing the goods that could point me to her. Two choices came to mind: 1) keep walking and get another Tequila Sunrise to calm the anxiety and think of a delightful introduction or 2.) walk up to her and see what happens hoping for positive spontaneity. I chose the latter.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you May?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied with a gentle smile, gazing up under long thin bangs.

Don’t gulp, I said to myself, my mouth watering in nervousness. “Hi, I’m Trevor,” I said, extending my hand to her. “You put me on the list and sent me a CD and I’m so thankful for it. Thank you so much. Thank you. You guys have such a fun sound and I’m glad to finally meet you.”

I wasn’t sure what I had said and wasn’t sure if she understood or made any connection to knowing me. Thanking her was my focus and what I blurted was my attempt to spit it out vocally in a somewhat cognitive sentence structure.

“Yes, I know who you are,” she replied, applying her welcoming hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

My body turned to marmalade, but my spine kept me from turning into a puddle, though my brain was already mush. “Oh, wow. That’s great!” I blurted. “Yeah, I’m trying to put together a portfolio of writing for a journalism spot in the music industry, like Rolling Stone. I want to review places and bands, you know, bands that I like. You and Expulsion Dropouts and bands that I like are a joy to write about.”

What the heck was I doing and saying? I thought. Was that my attempt at a boast or a compliment? I felt like I was in the second grade explaining to my teacher how I was gong to be a great writer someday. Not a late twenties struggling freelancer trying to meet new people and connections.

May kept her gentle smile, but had a slight annoyance in her eyes from my pretentious monologue. I agreed with her look, but kept my mouth shut knowing I wouldn’t be able to explain without digging further into my grave.

“I like an honest criticism,” she said.

“Well, that’s the thing about being a writer for myself,” I replied. “I can write it anyway I feel and not worry about getting it edited out by editors.” What? Shut up, Trevor, I repeated to myself over and over.

Then she kindly introduced two other band members that stopped by the table: There was David, wearing a fall colored plaid sweater vest, collar shirt, and tie, towering over the table. “Nice to meet you,” I said while shaking hands. And head-shaved Bobby wearing a Mormon outfit: white collar shirt with black tie and trousers. “Looking forward to hearing you guys play,” I said. He gave me a smug look. These three were Expulsion Dropouts minus Gerry that was elsewhere. It was interesting that May introduced them like friends, and not their position in the band. Then Big Bomb Blam! started to play.

“I want to hear this first band!” I yelled. It was extremely loud, even at this far table. “It was nice meeting you all,” I said. “I’ll see you guys on stage.” I waved farewell. It wasn’t the best introduction, but I was able to say my thanks. Getting another drink and trying to think of a line wouldn’t have made it any better. I was just glad I didn’t get light headed and flip their table of merchandise flying.

I ordered another Tequila Sunrise as I plopped on the stool closest to the stage and watched Big Bomb Blam! The 50’s pinstripe girl was the lead singer of the group, screaming vocals and raking her keyboard. I was in the perfect seat five feet distance being consumed in the music without distraction. Massive speakers angled in the corners and more on the floor blasted with mind jarring magnitude. There was no quiet place in my mind to think upon the horrible introduction I had made. It felt great.

Big Bomb Blam! were from Los Angeles. They had a sound that felt like dropping through clouds of orange and red balloons. Maybe it was my drink taking effect and influencing my color selection, but that’s what the sound felt like as it fluttered over my skin. The 50’s girl could yell vocals that chimed at its peak, never getting screechy or annoying. She was raging dropped mouthed on the microphone but keeping a tender melody, a piercing smooth voice. The lead guitar next to her was something else, wearing a vest and patterned collar shirt with rolled up sleeves revealing blue arms of tattoos. He was steady striking chords that never led to a redundant riff, riff, riff. He was focused in his own world playing a solo from beginning to end while the rest of the band performed around him. For a while I was transfixed on his guitar hearing each resonating chord, not listening to anything else. A half-hour later they were clearing the stage.

The place was now full of people. I had been watching the band and did not notice the influx of fans. The ambient chatter overwhelmed the speaker music. As I glanced over the scene, a short girl with wavy black locks, wearing a black zip sweater and blue jeans, hopped on a barstool two seats away. I instantly took notice of her.

She pulled a little portable camera from her purse and started to fidget with it, taking it apart and putting it together, checking the memory card, maybe. She sat by herself and didn’t seem to be looking around for anybody and wasn’t checking her phone a million times trying to look busy. She was sipping what appeared to be a glass of cola, tagging her as a girl that might be under 18, but then I realized this was an over 21 bar.

I leaned over to her, resting my arm on the counter for support and keeping the seat open between us, and asked, “Who are you here to photograph?”

“Expulsion Dropouts,” she said. “I’m going to try and video some of their songs.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” I replied. “So, are you going to post them on the net afterwards? I’m Trevor, by the way.” I extended my hand to her.

“I’m Malisa,” she greeted. “Yeah, I’ll likely put the video one of my sites.”

She seemed friendly and didn’t mind the conversation.

“How many sites do you have?” I asked as I slid over to the stool next to her.

“I have three.”

Three possible outlets of conversation, I thought. I liked where this was going. I hated it when I couldn’t think of the next thing to say or when the girl looks at her phone the moment I did say something, which neither was happening. “Why do you have three?”

“I have one for my music; one for my friends back home in Texas; and one for my movie site.”

“Do you shoot movies as well?” For some reason I thought her little camera could shoot short movies, like documentaries or something.

She leaned into my ear and said, “I actually do adult movies.”

What? Did I hear correctly? I leaned closer. “You shoot adult movies?”

“I’m actually in them,” she replied.

I asked as calm and properly and politically correct as possible, “You’re an adult film star?”

“You can say that.”

I looked again at this girl I initially thought was under eighteen that now was telling me she was a porn star. I downed my half glass of Tequila Sunrise. “Sorry I’ve never seen you before,” I said. “Not that I watch them all the time, but I’m a guy, you know?”

“I have nothing against it,” she said. “I know people are going to watch.”

I nearly fell off my stool, but was able to keep composure. “So, how’d you hear about Expulsion Dropouts?” I asked. I had to change subjects before my filthy mind could probe further with explicit, perverted, and possibly derogatory questions.

“My roommate told me about them and I’ve been watching them ever since.”

“So what happened to your roommate?”

“She might be coming later,” she said. I didn’t even want to ask if her roommate was a porn star, too. I was just glad it was another girl and not some guy that I would quickly imagine and conclude was doing porn movies with her on a constant business basis.

She told me that Expulsion Dropouts labeled her as their number one fan, because she was going to all their shows in the Los Angeles area. Two weeks prior, she had seen them at El Cid, a place where she used to skate past on her long board nearly everyday, but never entered until the night they played.

She connected to the lyrics as well, especially the song “Danny,” where two buddies were best friends in high school, but afterwards, Danny became a preacher and his friend couldn’t understand him anymore, wondering if he ever actually knew the real Danny.

“I’ve lost a lot of people in such a short stretch of time,” said Malisa. “I just don’t feel pain anymore. I’m numb to it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’ve lost friends, too. But not as bad as you it sounds.”

“I didn’t think I could feel pain anymore,” she said. “But when I got my nipples pierced, I felt pain! I didn’t think I would feel it, but it hurt! I was screaming my head off. And the guy doing the piercing was asking if I really wanted to do this. Hell, yeah, I kept saying. Hell, yeah!”

Was she talking to me? I was thinking about past friends and she was saying “nipples,” which I didn’t mind and flowed with it. “You got your nipples pierced to feel pain again?”

“When I got my tattoo behind my ear, that was painful. Not as bad as my nipples though.” She pulled her hair back with one hand and held down her ear lobe with the other and revealed a crooked star tattoo behind her ear.

“That looks demonic,” I said.

“It’s a Deftones logo from one of their albums,” she replied. “I love Deftones.”

“I could see that.”

“They really inspire me in the dark style of music I write.”

“Oh, you write music,” I said surprisingly. “I thought you just enjoyed it like me. You actually sing or play an instrument?”

“I sing and write my own lyrics,” she said. “I’m also a bartender down in Whittier.”

This girl got more interesting by the mouthful. She kept jovial as she told these stories, sipping down what looked like cola. There was no sadness in her voice as if she came from Texas to Los Angeles and this was not what she expected. She seemed to appreciate every bit of hell that Los Angeles had to offer. Malisa was a struggling artist, doing what ever she could to survive, and enjoying the trip. “Rock music and porn go hand in hand,” she said, “So, I don’t see why not.”

She finished her drink and turned on her camera. “I’m going to the other side,” she said. “It looks like their about to start. I want to get a better angle of when they make their entrance.”

“Expulsion Dropouts make an entrance?”

“You’ll see,” said Malisa, and left to the other side and leaned on the wall, camera ready.

I took another complete look at her as she adjusted her sweater over her loose fit black and white stripe shirt. Malisa was certainly cute enough to be a porn star, maybe in the girl-next-door barely legal category, but not your typical double-D front and rear, blonde hair, red lipstick, six foot tan body with long oiled legs that would explode any straight man’s fantasy. To me, looking at her across the way, she was Malisa from Texas, without the accent, in sweater, blue jeans, and sneakers.

Just as she had warned, Expulsion Dropouts high-stepped through the door bashing drums, cymbals, tambourines, and tooting whistles like a high school marching band heading to the football field. They spun, aligned, dropped their gear, and jumped on stage. It was a wake-up call to get butts on feet, a half-time show that wasn’t soon to be forgotten.

The prime stool spot next to the stage was taken by a guy that was blocking the show. I got up, went around him, and leaned on the edge of the bar next to him, back in perfect view to watch the band rip.

Expulsion Dropouts had a fast pace sound for a new generation of adult high schoolers. A young again, kid at heart feel of ditching class, hanging out on the tennis court to flirt with a girl that I wanted to ask to the next monthly dance, buying beer and Boone’s with a fake ID, busting my buddy’s quarter supply on Street Fighter, and remembering friends from then that were no longer around. Years gone by. May on a double-deck keyboard took me to the 90’s with symphonic new-wave electronica squalls that could match any modern crazed dance mix. David on guitar and vocals stood confidant and tall, launching lyrics of boyhood memories and government policies that he would rather slash on his guitar; he was confused with people and the world like most of us, releasing his frustration and wonder in lighting bolt style between tongue and string. Bobby rolled the constant thunder on bass guitar. Gerry slammed the drums harder and faster than waves crashing breakers. Expulsion Dropouts were a Tsunami storm flashback to the twelve years of school that I disliked until the day I stood at graduation in cap and gown sadly realizing it was all over.

Expulsion Dropouts were all over at a quarter to 11pm, at least their half-hour performance was. Malisa was standing next to me with her camera, checking what she had shot; some time in the middle of the set she had come by my side “for a better angle,” she said. Now she stuck her camera in her purse and rushed out the exit like she was late for a shoot. Was she offended that I was watching May a little too intently during the set? Reflex made me go after her.

When I got outside, Malisa was returning from around the corner. I slowed my hurried stride to nearly tripping into her, noticing for the first time her flashing shoes. I chuckle smiled as she casually dug for her cigarettes.

“You ran out of there,” I said. “I thought you might be leaving.”

“I was worried about my car,” she replied. “I’ve got it towed so many times. No matter where I park, I think it gonna get towed. It’s still around the corner right now.”

“Did I just see your shoes flashing?”

“I fit kid sizes,” she said. Malisa stomped her feet blinking blue and puffed a cigarette. I lit a smoke for myself.

She talked about the problems with shooting with her camera and the dim lighting environment, then finished her cigarette.

“Are you leaving?” I asked.

“Is there another band playing?”

“There’s one more in about a half-hour,” I replied. “I’ll get you a drink if you’d like.”

“Sure,” she said.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Jack and Coke.”

“So, is your roommate coming?”

“She decided not to.”

“That’s really nice of her.”

I took a few final puffs on my cigarette and smashed it out.

Back at the bar I ordered Malisa a Jack Daniel’s and cola mix. For myself: another wimpy Tequila Sunrise.

We sat on the bench seat together and sipped our drinks.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “is Malisa your real name or your film star name?”

“Marlena Jane is my porn name,” she said and took a suck on her straw.

I definitely needed more tequila in my drink. My politeness was a bit too phony as I tried to keep my libido in check. “Well, I’m glad I got to me you first Malisa, the girl that enjoys Expulsion Dropouts as much as I do, and not the Marlena Jane film star that does whatever she gots to do.”

“Not to burst your bubble, Trevor,” she said, “but it’s not real. Sometimes I’m on the set for hours, just standing around, waiting. And I barely even know the guy that I’m doing it with.”

She must have felt that I didn’t know much about pornography, but compared to her, I didn’t. I tried to sound somewhat knowledgeable in the area and asked, “So, do you go to any of those shows or conventions they have?”

“Not usually,” she said. “But this year I’m up for two awards so I’ll have to.”

My libido got free with my curiosity and I asked, “What two awards would that be?”

“I’m up for best blowjob and best three-way,” she said.

“Like three-way guys? or three way girls?” I asked, wiping the sweat from my head.”

“Two guys and me in the middle,” she stated casually. “I’m not into girls. I never know what to expect from them.”

“What to expect?” I asked, thinking drag queens.

“I hate hair,” she said. “I never know if they’re hairy or not down there. At least I know going in with guys that they won’t have a hairy thing.”

Just when I was about to get even more detailed and perverse in my questions, Bobby from Expulsion Dropouts came up to her, holding his phone open and ready. I figured the rock star wanted to swap numbers and stuff, maybe for an interesting music video, or get her name on the fan mailing list. Nothing to do with me, of course.

I chugged down most of my drink and said to Malisa, “I’m going to use the restroom.”

“Okay,” she acknowledged.

The men’s restroom was often a perfect spot for thinking when I wanted to get my mind straight, to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, to figure out a game plan, a strategy, use a time-out before the big score.

She’s a porn star, I said to myself, standing over a urinal and taking aiming at a pink puck. What do I want to do with that? I’m not doing shit! I’m going to enjoy the rest of the evening, go home, look her up, and do my thing. That’s it! Be done. Don’t try to do more, you’ll hurt yourself (I did look her up when I got home, and it wasn’t too pleasurable viewing her nominated performances. I had more respect for her than to watch her get defiled, or maybe because I liked her and this was her reality that didn’t adjust to me).

When I returned to the table, Malisa was still chatting with Bobby. This gave me an opportunity to get a final word with May, hopefully back at the merchandise table. Malisa thumbed at her phone and didn’t appear to notice when I passed.

And May was at the table, cupping a glass of wine and sitting cuddly with a gentleman. I made my intrusion.

“I wanted to say good-bye and thank you one more time before you left,” I said. “I really enjoyed the show. That entrance was really something.”

She replied with little expression, “I’m glad you liked it.” May gave me a look that I was unwanted or had busted in on a conversation at the wrong moment, or both.

“Well, thanks again,” I said, and took a quick overview of the merchandise and waved good-bye.

When I got back to the table, Malisa and Bobby were gone, her drink only ice. My third of Tequila Sunrise sat alone. Did I miss her leaving? Did she disappear with Bobby out the back door somewhere? I slopped on the bench. The next band, Blind Advisory, started to perform. I didn’t care how they sounded.

Blind Advisory was a group of five guys that began like statues on stage with only motioning hands swaying across instruments. It wasn’t a gimmick, they were stiff. The lead singer’s head didn’t move while his mouth hid behind a microphone. Slow draining vocals with puttering instruments, a perfect combination for pulling the life out of me at this very moment. Their music sunk heavy as I finished my drink and wanted more as long as they kept playing. But for a while, I crunched ice.

Then Malisa passed by, ignoring me, heading towards the exit. If she didn’t want to say good-bye, that was fine, I was already in the pits. But at the next table down, she turned and hopped on the bench. I gave her a strange look. She turned and looked at me, then looked at the table cluttered with beer bottles in front of her. She scooted off, walked around and popped back next to me.

“Were you looking for another drink?” I asked. “I’ll get you another.”

“I didn’t see where you were,” she said. “If you’d like.”

I headed back to the bar and ordered a Jack & Coke and my lucky Tequila Sunrise. “Little on the Jack and strong tequila, please.”

Malisa and I enjoyed our drinks as we watched Blind Advisory slowly come to life. The band started down and depressing, but as their set progressed they became a lively jam band with few words over immense intense jamming. It was the way I was feeling inside as the tequila sunrised through my veins knowing Malisa was beside me. A remembering moment.

When Blind Advisory announced their final song and began to play, Malisa finished her drink and said, “I’m going outside for a smoke.”

“I’m gonna finish out the song,” I replied. Blind Advisory was tearing deep into an instrumental that was picking up speed. I had to keep watching, waiting for the crash collision explosion finale, but as the song continued, so did the stretch of road leading to the cliff. The jam kept going and going into the endless distance, like a muscle car speeding one-fifty down a thousand mile road, getting nowhere fast. Or maybe it sounded that way because I was anxious for it to end.

The song did finally end, about six minutes later, fading out with a final snare. It was an open road ride to nowhere after all, though the journey wasn’t too bad. As I headed for the exit, I noticed another of tonight’s show poster on the wall. I carefully peeled it off and took it with me.

When I got outside, Malisa was talking to a teenage boy in a Jack Skellington sweater leaning on a bus stop sign watching down the street.

“Hey, Malisa,” I said. “Look what I got you.” I handed her the poster.

“Oh nice!” she said. “This is cool!”

“Just don’t peel the tape; it’ll tear the poster in half. I already tried with another one.”

“Do you want this one?” she asked.

“It’s yours,” I said.

“Hey, I’m going around the corner and smoke,” she said. “You don’t smoke grass, do you?”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Yeah!”

A few minutes later, we were in her Jeep parked around the corner; the kid in the back seat, Malisa and I in the front. Malisa stuck the show poster on the ceiling. Dried roses covered her dash with hula doll legs erect in the center without the dancer, which I thought at first was some kind of sex toy she left out. Beads and assorted air fresheners hung from the rear view mirror. I felt awkward crammed in the Jeep as I watched Malisa pack a pipe. How did I get here with this girl I didn’t even know that I was about to smoke out with? Should I leave? Then I saw a deer looking at me with a radiating cross between his antlers. It was a Jagermeister air freshener. For some reason, looking at that cross told me it was okay and that I was supposed to be there. It’s strange how I’m often finding religious signs in times like these. God is out there, if you have the eyes to see, I thought, though I wasn’t even high, yet. Maybe it was the fumes.

We passed around the pipe and talked about things I no longer remember, except for the story as to why her back window was no longer there.

“A girlfriend of a guy that I was shooting a scene with got jealous and smashed my window with a screwdriver. Bitch.”

I stared at the open window and watched plumes of smoke disappear.

When the kid in the back seat started bragging stories about a sex shop he was working at, which Malisa knew of, the moment had come for me to depart.

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” I said. “Hopefully I might see you again, Malisa, not just on the internet. You’ve been very sweet.”

I’m not sure what she replied, for I was glazed and gazing into her eyes one last time. Then I pulled the release latch and tumbled out. The kid followed.

Malisa asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you to your car, Trevor?”

I shook my head and leaned against the wall. I might have missed something there, but my head was already gone.

I walked the kid back to the bus stop. I wanted to offer him a ride, but I was in no condition to do so. We stood and talked for a while as I leaned on the bus stop pole.

“I see those girls come by all the time,” he said. “All the same - looking to jump in a leather strap, high zip boots outfit, panty stockings, that type of shit. You just meet her?”

“Yeah, I just met her,” I said.

“They got strange shit in their heads, you know?”

“I don’t know. She seemed fine to me.”

“It don’t matter, I don’t swing that way anyway,” he replied.

All of a sudden I felt vulnerable. I started to walk away and said to him, “Get home safe, alright.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied.

“Then pray for me.”

I lit a cigarette and managed to stay between the lines while crossing the street. It had been a long while since last smoking weed; been well over a year. But now I was toast.

My white shuttle was patiently waiting my return. I opened my back door and crawled in. My body was cotton mouth and numb. I didn’t know if the cigarette was still in my mouth or if it had fallen somewhere. I contorted my body and closed the door, making certain to lock out any further paranoia from entering. It was one bad trip. I curled into a ball. My stomach began to knot and ache as I thought about what happened and the review I wouldn’t have.

"Ready For Trouble"

2009-01-16T23:00:00.000-08:00

In my uncompleted, and likely to be unfinished, fact stemming into fiction novel about the Indie L.A. music scene, she goes by the name of Bulinda Substance. She’s a pale, black velvet frizz skirt, hairdo rolled tight Roaring Twenties style, singer songwriter blues guitar type with jazzy big horn and stand-up bass backing her melancholy rusty throat vocals. I’ve seen her perform several times, Bulinda Substance & Her Band, good stuff, had got to meet her and talk with her numerous times (sometimes she was a joyous hug and a smile, even once a conversation over dinner, while other times I couldn’t get past the frost on her shoulders). Was never introduced to “& Her Band,” which often accompanied her like security entourage.

On this night Bulinda Substance was doing a solo show (a few of her band members were out of town and the others likely made reasons not to show for support). This was the first of this sort for her, just her and her milky blue wide body blues guitar taking the stage, opening the evening of live music following the stand-up female comedy act that cracked the crowd with unwitty estrogen jokes. This took place in some back room at an Irish pub in Santa Monica.

Bulinda Substance & Her Solo Show went over okay, considering that the left speaker was busted, her guitar amp felt like humming through most of the set, and her ramblings between songs were nervous and muffled. It was as though she was singing proud and tall on a crumbling hill, until she realized she had lost her footing, something like that with: you were good and welcome for trying, but fate hinting not to go at it solo again.

After the set, and after she gathered her gear clearing the stage, I approached her in an effort to be positive of sorts. There was a sudden awkward moment when she saw me heading towards her, an indecisive look on her face as if not knowing whether to hold out her arms for a pleasant hug or just hold out her hand for a gracious handshake. I lifted a hand and tilted a wave hello that eased her drop faced back onto the defensive, glaring a seemingly unwelcoming cat’s stare, ready to hiss, if necessary. It was like her eyes bewildered flashed narrow into sharp daggers. I felt unsure of the situation and thought to myself, “I did raise my whole hand to wave, not just my middle finger, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure I did.” She said, “Hi” and not much else.

I congratulated her on the performance, though I was now telling it to the side of her head as she stared towards the empty stage, not exactly ignoring me, but not focused on hearing me. I looked at her profile, the position when one can really get a good look at a person without having to be distracted with keeping courteous eye contact, and was able to regard her features closely. It was then I thought:

Are you just a hallow soul
In an ornamental layered shell?
Your features are portrait classy,
But you don’t show any class.
In a class of your own. Empty.
A glass jar.
I am trying to say hello, but I find
Myself talking
To the side of your head. Hello.
You have the look of a rose, wilting.

I broke from thought and asked, “How’d you feel about being alone on stage?”

She either didn’t hear me leaning the question into her ear or was too overwhelmed with blaring an introduction of me to some guy, as she spurted: “Hey, I’d like you to meet Trevor. He wrote a review of my show a while back.” I had and that’s what got us talking in the first place. She turned back and displayed, “This is my friend Blah Blah Blah.”

I shook his hand and like a one thump bass chord, “Nice to meet you,” I said. Personally, I didn’t take much account of this Blah Blah Blah guy that wasn’t part of her band, nor was a performer, but only an odd dark haired Greek Fabio male “friend” of hers, which later she smothered her body onto, and then got him to go around like a good pet to disturb drinking patrons to sign a clipboard sheet to be on Bulinda Substance’s music mailing list. Greek Fabio wasn’t much interested in chattering with me or maybe I just didn’t reply or hear what he had to say. He soon moved along quietly out of the way.

But when I attempted to pick-up the conversation with Bulinda Substance that never really got started, she lassoed Jamie Sol Black from a passing arm’s length and introduced him to me. And as he leaned an elbow on his merchandise counter and began describing his band and music, I noticed Bulinda Substance slipping out and away from the conversation to find a secluded spot against the wall, in my view just over his shoulder, to toy with her playmate, Greek Fabio. It was a film framed image with Jamie Sol Black slicked in black hair, black suit with white tie looking like a mortician stylist standing foreground talking to me while two love animals slithered among each other behind. I suddenly felt my gut twisting and the weight of my body slump heavy. It was like she was getting her sweet revenge for something I did or didn’t do. I felt like that typical down in the dumps and out of luck character that just been blatantly cheated on. Odd to say why. Maybe that moment made me realize I liked her a little more than her music, infatuated with her mystique. Realization and reality colliding, a bright shock of feeling instantly doused. I tried to follow what Jamie Sol Black was saying, but was more concerned on which way my stomach wanted to spew as I focused on the fondling image in my peripheral vision while keeping eye contact with the conversation at hand. I wanted to remove myself from this scene, cut to another location, a shot at the bar, an alcohol shot, or just cut to the sidewalk for air and a cigarette and an escape.

Then I was handed a CD that brought me back to the moment. “Let me know what you think,” said Jamie Sol Black. The CD was his eight song album, his first, he mentioned. I wanted to take it and snap it in half, release some of the confused anger swarming within. What in hell’s name would a CD do me good at this moment? This is what I get for being social? But then I stepped into his soles and realized he had no idea that I was collapsing. Or maybe he did? The album was called “Jaime Sol Black: Ready For Trouble” with a macabre art cover of a rotting flesh skull fitted with top hat and a red carnation.

The mindless conversation, because of me, came to an end when I let Jamie Sol Black know that I couldn’t stay for his show. I came thinking he was going on second after Bulinda Substance, but instead it would be another hour wait in this suddenly cramp back room lounge that kept thickening with claustrophobia. He was also without a few of his band members and only had that one working speaker as well. “I’ll wait to see and hear your stuff in a better environment, full sound, full band, the works,” I said. “In the meantime, thanks for the album. I’ll get back to you on it.”

We shook hands as if making a deal and sealing a promise between old acquaintances, and then parted ways. I looked at the CD in my hand and felt disappointed that I hadn’t made better conversation with him. Everything was getting to me.

I looked up and Bulinda Substance was gone. I had momentarily forgotten about her when I was distracted with the CD being placed in my hand. I didn’t care to look for her anymore. I just didn’t want to pass her on my way out, not that she would stop.

When I got home, I sought out a secluded spot away from every one and poured four fingers of Johnny Walker Black Label whisky neat and threw on the CD in hopes it would release and rid the unwanted substance within me.

Then like an unsuspecting wake attack in the death of night, a gauntlet of sound and lyrics struck true to my emotions as Jaime Sol Black began preaching the hellfire raging words describing: “She rots away in purgatory listening for her cries of glory, frustration and doubt got the best of her, now . . .” And just like that he was in my mind cleaning shop, consoling with riddance, connecting with what I thought of her, and thinking maybe what I felt at the bar he knew? The four fingers of Johnny was now down to a pinky, but filling again quickly as I smiled and laughed and listened with cheer to this song entitled, “What She Said”. Big band zoot suit sound with rock-a-hellbilly gun powder blasting rhythm charring every note, racing to keep pace with the rebel hot rod vocals of Jaime Sol Black. The adrenaline was flowing like the pouring whisky. A screwed up person is what she is to best explain her, “She wants to kill herself,” he mentions, and later describing “missing out on the better side of life,” as in death? My imagination mind began to slip between hateful reality, a nightmare oncoming, and the persevering of Jaime Sol Black altering them both. Was he telling the truth of the side of Bulinda Substance I didn’t know? Explaining the unknown darkness within her emptiness? They could have been brother and sister in their matching mourning black attire they wore tonight. Bastard children of cherubs? Never told. Angelic sounds for the infinitely sad.

I held on as the music rocked into the next track: “Wild Wind”. Rancid sounding. What the ship? Talking about “the ocean blue” and “Jolly Rogers”? A bit out of place, I thought. Then I thought of the black pirate like boots Bulinda Substance wore and it made sense. High heel boots cuffed over, pirate style. Never thought of her as a swashbuckler. Maybe she could accessorize with a ruby glass eye and an eye patch over the opposite, which would fix that pretentious gaze piercing her cream veneer. The Tell-Tale Heart would then not be necessary. I thought about throwing on the Pirates of the Caribbean flick, but I couldn’t focus on making sure not to accidentally throw in one of the later crappy sequels. Christmas gifts. And then the song ended and I wondered what Bulinda Substance was for Halloween. A ruse? A sip.

“Got No Cents” dilated my pupils into momentary alertness. Yet another song that rumbles like a 50’s chopped top coupe burning open throttle down the black spit tar strip spinning up a tornado of soot and gravel while “drinking my brew” trying to forget. And before the disgust of her settles, the song ends. Spent it all in the wrong places, the wrong things, and too, the wrong people. Sometimes good. Got no sense with thought pockets of memories pillaged by drugs. Out of work. Laziness. Needing support. Is that me? No success. Though I keep going, wondering: what next? What girl would actually want this in a man? I slump. “Just give me a couple more thrills.”

Emptied the whisky glass of hope and I was alive at the hop, doin’ the bop. Lost in time. Still stuck in that 1950’s scene. I wasn’t even born then. Couldn’t get up to jump and jive, but turned it loud on “Go Boyz Go”. A perfect track for American Graffiti, not American Beauty, nor American Pie. What has happened to our culture? American Downfall. The boys with I on the madness tonight. Where is everybody? Smoke it up. Shoot it in. Drink it down. Take it! My friends are there in a chemical state of mind deficiency. Another room. Hours gone away. Relinquish the throb into a dull murmur. Complete and in nothingness. They are there without being there. Gone Boyz Gone. No more drag strips at the drop of a handkerchief, or scarf. Now we have drag queens. “Got to see the rabbit before it passes you too fast.” White Rabbit! Take the red pill. Eat it!

I drop into hell to hear demon fire of “Devil’s Game”. Lyrical imagery of another encounter with Satan and his gang, much like the fiddler meeting in The Charlie Daniels Band’s “The Devil Went Down To Georgia”. A band of demons playing amongst licking flames. My mind dissolves from the heat, diluted with delusions. Skin slipping from emotion, bone. Adrenaline trying to escape from a molten experience hot, eternal inferno, then more of the same, continuing, can not focus. Don’t want to. Let the body slide and the mind boil and tenderize. The feel of sin is great. Burn in hell tormented memory, but don’t incinerate for I may require this feeling again. Glorious hell in the hurt. Rock and Roll masochism. Depression burns at the stake, rearing its ugly head to make me feel great. “It was hotter than ever with the Devil’s pleasure.”

Then the solitary drear sets in with “Memory Lane”. Falling back flashes, tumbling off rocks and cliffs dropping further into the darkest past, now to experience them alone. A freight train running through the moments that I thought would last. The first time to the final turn away, jump skip, it’s all in the present now in the spark of the emotion. A memory forgotten, covered deep, faded to black, but trigger that same essence and it all returns Chernobyl. The heart ache pain I was having was nothing about Bulinda Substance at all. It was despising her for triggering a scornful memory of this Irish brunette catastrophe relationship I had in the past, way past. Something that love never forgets and hate always feels. Memory lane is a Mobius strip. This is one night to be left to the memory grave to be dug ditch death deep to try and rid the hurt, but though the green grass of joy may sprout over the past, the emotion is buried alive, never dying, only dormant, waiting for that certain perfume, that certain flip of the hair, that certain song, to free itself from the grave to return reigning heavy on the heart once again. In this case it was her red lips of smugness in that sneering smile of hers as her hands wandered on her man. I think it might turn out different because this is a different woman, but the pain is the same, now hurting before it even has reason. She is not Bulinda Substance, but rather everything incarnate that I despised and loathed about that damned woman I buried long ago with name you’ll never hear me speak. I drink. What a gripping hold hate has upon a scarred heart. “It’s just going to come back and hit you in the face.” Sledgehammer hard.

“Dead Bitches” - dead bitches. Killing each other, knowing they can’t be apart, though could never be happy together. Homicidal Romeo & Juliet. The moon in the window was sinking. The hour was early morning rising, but not yet the glow. The people have departed on the floor or out the door, bless that the later may arrive home safely. None bothered me tonight, for I was writing, working, feeling in my own door closed catacomb. Dead Bitches. Leave it at that. The chemicals were flowing nicely, I feeling every extending vein as I stumble over bodies, maneuvering through the next room, hungry, nothing left on the table. The end is near. My tingly toes curl under and my body falls, head rush, nausea - thud. I lay head to carpet, staring at the freckles on a Fritos corn chip. Nothing is crawling. My face itchy with pressure. I imagine the stale crunch of biting into the chip when I awake. It will wait for me, unlike her. Dead Bitches. My eyes blur and drip.

I elapse into a dream memory, a movie scene not real, my eyes turn to see imagination, sucked from the reality of lint carpet. Jamie Sol Black is the last to be with me in a Farmer John outfit, “melting in that old Louisiana sun”? A final song of therapy against tonight’s Bulinda Substance abuse, though I only accuse her of guilt by association with my past. The insensitiveness is hard to forgive as well. The final song plays, “Country Boy”. From pirates, to leather jacket hot rod runners, then to demons, and now to moonshine drunks? Huckleberry finished is what I am. Getting over the unforgiven and releasing the anarchy rebellion within, firing a blaze my soul to forge into strength to move forward. But why am I thinking of the South? Jamie Sol Black’s past? Or just a tale? Sadder than my life for sure. I feel better now. Thanks for speaking your mind and singing what I feel. “Ready For Trouble.” Sure thing. From hell and back and the rough ride of life that happens between, this is a suitable soundtrack for those with pain stricken hearts and bruised memories in this incurable and fatal disease called life that we all are given the God loving opportunity to suffer through. Fade away.

And then I awoke to silence and sunlight. My eyes came into focus of a stale empty room. Sunbeams stretched through slips in the blinds, flickering dust ruminants and debris particles floating through the gleam, as were thoughts of her, minute and scattered. What was such the big deal that I didn’t feel now. Things really were different in the morning, though the corn chip was still there. The twisted strange, female two-faced deliriums with Jaime Sol Black as my narrative guide started to cloud. Not enough sleep, an empty stomach with too much to drink, and an unexpectedly induced heartache played into an emotional night of obscure drama. Awaking, connection and congruity thinned. Now none of it made sense. Now it was near noon, and I took myself out to the porch for some eyes closed sun and swallowed back two Advil with a bottle of ice water. A nice greasy burger and fries would be waiting for me in a half-hour. I looked over my intoxicated review on Jaime Sol Black’s “Ready For Trouble” album. It was mostly pages of undecipherable scribbles and jagged pen strokes bolding angry words (alcohol amped thoughts and emotions, pure and raw, which what you see was the attempt to edit it into a review with a little more, but not much, coherency).

Call it a one-night in depth psychotic analysis of life, music, and the provoked emotions that connects the two. But if this is ever read, it is soon to be an old tale, for Jamie Sol Black & His Band is back in the studio and planning to release a new album in Summer of 2008. The first single, “Ballad of Mr. B (Ballad of Blackie)”, is promoted to be a free download and made into a music video. It’s obvious that this won’t be the last chapter of Slick Street Joe, I mean, Jamie Sol Black.

If wondering what befalls Bulinda Substance in the novel, “Staging the Music, Indie L.A.: A Band, A Bar, and A Shot in the Dark” (working title, of course), well, the end of her character will be A or B, nothing promising, nor great:

A.) Bulinda Substance & Her Band’s first album is finally released, but has the same nine songs, three of which are covers, she had been performing for the last five years. It isn’t a success. From this, her band breaks up with added struggles with her, her music, and from wandering the same bars playing. She gets no callbacks, from anybody. Not even from her boy toy Greek Fabio that got deported because she wasn’t about to marry him. Bulinda Substance attempts to continue as a solo act, but it goes over just as bad as the first solo show. Eventually, her luck runs down to a final performance that can have no encore.

The end scene of her is in a steaming bathtub of bubbles, late night, low volume KCRW 89.9 tuned in on the radio. She is laying back in the bubbles, leaning her head against the tile, focused on a spot that happens to be peeling paint in a far corner. Her face then tightens. Teeth grit and inhale. A swish in the water, grimace and short cry: “Agh”. In the background, a commercial raves wild about Guitar Center’s bi-monthly super sale as if it were a weekend monster truck rally. Then another cringe and swish of water. She looks down. She raises an arm from the dying bubbles, her wrist slit, hand limp, blood pouring from a straight edge, dripping red onto the bubbles. She rests it on the curve of the tub, messy. She lifts her other wrist, red bracelet, fingers pinching a razorblade between a manicure. She sticks the razorblade in a bar of white soap. The arm plops. Her face drains placid to match soap and bubbles. Beneath tears of sadness her eyes dim into glossed nothingness. Eyelids slowly fall like a stage curtain ending a tragic play.

KCRW returns from commercial and the first haunting tune heard is the opening ghost train guitar chord belonging to a Bulinda Substance song called, “Night Train to Sorrowsville”. A raspy male radio deejay speaks over the music, telling audiences about the new nightly after midnight program, “The Sorrowsville Hours”, with title and music credit to Bulinda Substance & Her Band. It’s a suicide hotline live call-in show to help those in need stay living one more night, playing music that understands these people to let them know they are not alone in the hurt. The idea for the show was actually a spontaneous thought thrown out by Bulinda herself on a radio interview years ago that finally got heard or was remembered by radio producers.

Bulinda’s home phone begins to ring, a classic bell ringer. Her cell phone begins to vibrate, falling off her guitar case. There is no one there to answer either.

B.) Bulinda Substance become a cooperate success at her sixty plus hours a week beige skirt suit day job, only to come home to a microwave dinner and a Greek Fabio that paints bad art all day.

Then on one of these typical late hour days she returns home frustrated, jerky, still on a conference call on her CrackBerry phone. She whips off her attaché shoulder bag in anger and slings it at her couch unseen. Crack-kink! Bulinda turns to see her guitar, a gift from dying father, splintered in two at the neck, dangling by six strings. Bulinda drops her phone at the sight of the disaster. Greek Fabio comes running out to explain that he took her guitar out to paint a still life. She is speechless, dropping on the couch, as she grabs up a crumbling piece of guitar in each hand. It’s not going to fit together again. Her cell phone chimes and vibrates on the floor. Greek Fabio races to hand it to her. She instantly drops the scrap wood, becomes proper and professional, wipes the broken guitar dream from her lap and replaces it with her attaché bag that she flops open and digs through as she answers her phone in retaliation: “Of course I’m here . . . I couldn’t wait longer for an answer . . . So, are we going to arrive on schedule to meet deadline? . . . This is ridiculous!”

Her character end will be something like that. One of the two: her music lives and she dies or she lives and her music dies. She can’t have both. Not now, not anymore.

Radio Death of Indie 103.1

2009-01-15T22:00:00.000-08:00

Message from INDIE 103.1:
(January 15, 2009)

This is an important message for the Indie 103.1 radio audience.

Indie 103.1 will cease broadcasting over this frequency effective immediately. Because of changes in the radio industry and the way radio audiences are measured, stations in this market are being forced to play too much Britney, Puffy and alternative music that is neither new nor cutting edge. Due to these challenges, Indie 103.1 was recently faced with only one option --- to play the corporate radio game.

We have decided not to play that game any longer. Rather than changing the sound, spirit, and soul of what has made Indie 103.1 great. Indie 103.1 will bid farewell to the terrestrial airwaves and take an alternative course.

This could only be done on the Internet, a place where rules do not apply and where new music thrives; be it grunge, punk, or alternative simply put, only the best music.

For those of you with a computer at home or at work, log on to www.indie1031.com and listen to the new Indie 103.1 - which is really the old Indie 103.1, not the version of Indie 103.1 we are removing from the broadcast airwaves.

We thank our listeners and advertisers for their support of the greatest radio station ever conceived, and look forward to continuing to deliver the famed Indie 103.1 music and spirit over the Internet to passionate music listeners around the world.

This end reminded me of the beginning…

It all started with MARS-FM (1991-1992). The radio airwaves gave birth to a new station that allowed me to get away from the popular listening norm of KIIS-FM, POWER 106, and that KROQ endlessly playing Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Under the Bridge.” MARS-FM was the first time that I heard Rave or Techno music turn mainstream. It was awesome, energetic, and new, like a jolt of electricity to L.A. This is what L.A. was about, going beyond the radio stations of other commercial cities. I recorded hours of it on Maxell 60 tape using my dying boombox, letting it just sit and record before I left for school in the morning. It was the best. The talk spread about the station, the movement grew, Rave flyers started to pile. I remember having a wall of flyers, so many different designs, with most poking fun at media advertisements. It was “Chronic” instead of “Coca-Cola.” “Loser” instead of “Lottery.” It was art that stated the obvious of modern society. This was the first time I felt joyous that I wasn’t the only one that saw through the mass media pile of brown. From then, it all became a fascinating culture of art and sound for me. This new mainstream airing of music connected the kids. Though, I never did make it out to a Rave, never calling the number to find out where to meet to find out where the actual location of the Rave was at. My friends had all the candy fixins just the same.

Then the radio station disappeared. I had no idea what happened. I imagined the station got busted for something connected with this Ecstasy drug that started to become prominent along side with the popular pot. But, according to Wikipedia the station owners were seeking something more mainstream, causing the station to turn into Jazz. My favorite station was gone. First Gemco, now this?

I still had my tapes, access to party drugs, and the flyers that kept piling. It lasted for a while, a few months, until I was back on the KROQ & POWER 106 bandwagon to save myself from wide-eyed insomnia.

GROOVE RADIO 103.1 (1996 – 1998) broke in on the air a few years later giving wide birth to Dance & Electronica. It was Techno music in a less abstract form it seemed. This new stuff was listenable even without being under-the-chemical-influence. This is when the debate started as to what was “Dance” and what was “Techno.” Dance music was the new trend and techno was dying or slowing its beat into a new genre called Electronica. Public popularity shifted towards Dance Music because normal people could actually “dance” to it, and the sound was bubblier. This dance music blended towards the Hip-Hop sound and beat, which caused it to shift away from Electronica. Dance Music became the new pop music while Electronica became the underground sound, adding itself to the Techno scene repertoire.

GROOVE RADIO 103.1 and the short lived GROOVE 103.1 (1998) soon died as the likes of Dance Music was grabbed by commercialism and exploited into continuous air-play on stations like KIIS-FM. La Bouche’s dance hit “Be My Lover” became part of KIIS-FM’s regular five song rotation. As for Electronica, it was on KROQ’s late-late-night “Afterhours” Jason Bentley show. I was hooked on “Afterhours” as if it was the last morsel of glimmering hope for non-mainstream music. Meanwhile, 103.1 became a sort of Classic/Modern Rock station playing all the “great” mainstream popular hits.

Half a decade later, KDL 103.1 (2003) arose feebly in an attempt to capture back the GROOVE RADIO 103.1 audience by playing that Dance Music and bits of Techno. It was the “best of” combination between GROOVE RADIO 103.1 and MARS-FM, the stuff that survived and became popular years later. Nostalgic to those that knew, and new to those that never heard. But this station died dead and gone before the year was over, and for me, marked the end of the last bit of the Rave era. “James Brown Is Dead” played continuously that December, and for a while, I thought the DJs were on holiday break and the equipment had malfunctioned with nobody noticing.

Then came INDIE 103.1 (December 31, 2003 – January 15, 2009). It sure wasn’t KROQ. And, it wasn’t even close to being a rehash of MARS-FM or GROOVE RADIO 103.1. This was really something new, but I felt weary of falling for this 103.1 station once again, knowing the consequences of finding such tragic love on this station frequency many time before. This new station was now just another preset button on my radio. The music scene, in general, wasn’t much interest to me anymore after the death of KDL 103.1.

Somewhere in late 2006, early ‘07, I found myself listening to this Mark Sovel "Mr. Shovel" more than often on INDIE 103.1. And he’d talk about all this local music and fun to be had on his special Sunday radio show called “Check One…Two…”

I’d always miss this special show, but Mr. Shovel kept reminding listeners to tune in, and then a few months later, he mentioned that this “Check One…Two…” show was now available for download for Free as an iTunes Podcast! I downloaded as many shows as possible, as soon as possible, because I realized that they disappeared after a while. Then one day I checked iTunes and it was no longer available for download! I found them all on INDIE 103.1’s website, but unable to download them (in legal terms). But it was okay, because by then I was going to Mr. Shovel’s “Check One…Two…” at The Viper Room. Live Indie music for Free! And cheap drinks. Mondays were great!

Mr. Shovel & INDIE 103.1 got me interested in the local music scene. Live music is the place to be, and the local music is great, and a lot of it, and repeat: cheap! Mr. Shovel discovered diamonds that he shared with audiences, while MySpace allowed other seekers to add to their own musical pleasure. 405 East has been my attempt to share my music pleasures with anybody passionate with the local music scene. Mr. Shovel was the enterprising endeavor, but after it’s over, he’ll be remembered and I’ll go on being the trudging explorer. INDIE 103.1 & Mr. Shovel will not be forgotten. If it wasn’t for INDIE 103.1 and Mr. Shovel, I’d still be listening to KROQ as it plays, still to this day, Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Under The Bridge.”

As of what the future holds for radio frequency 103.1? Something commercial pop friendly is likely what’s going to happen for a while. Then something else may arise afterwards that might be worthy listening, maybe. Bring back MARS-FM? Or a rehash of INIDIE 103.1 called INDIE RADIO 103.1? Or kill the radio frequency entirely, ending the era of radio 103.1?

In the meantime, I’ll instead be dropping in on 89.9 KCRW when the station plays music. Though, of recent, I started listening to 88.9 KXLU, which is a college station broadcasting out of Loyola Marymount University. No Commercials, ever! Fifty-plus years and still cranking it Indie. A variety of unheard music in a very very Indie operation. The music and the DJs will grow on you after a while. Now that I think of it, I wonder what’s on it now? Oh, how commitments wander…I’ll listen to INDIE 103.1 when I’m near a computer, if I’m not listening to Little Radio. Likely, I’ll just reminisce with my collected months of Mr. Shovel’s Podcasts instead.

Once again, Thank You Mr. Shovel & Indie 103.1 for breaking new ground in expanding music awareness of the independents. Your contribution to the Indie Los Angeles music scene will always be monumental.

*(Show air dates and memory jogging provide by: Wikipedia.)

Hyperion Tavern: All Acoustic Thursdays

2008-07-31T21:07:00.000-07:00

Hyperion Tavern
1941 Hyperion Ave
Silverlake, CA

Date: July 31, 2008
Event: All Acoustic Thursdays

“You are at your destination,” says Lady GPS, “Your destination is on the left.” And I look left to see past a thick overgrown tree at a black wall with a red open doorway at each corner, and next to one opening down its side beside a barber twill sign shows the lipstick red address number: 1941. “Please make a U-turn, if possible,” Lady GPS tells me before I finally decide to shut the thing down.

I make a U-turn, searching for street parking on the same street, Hyperion Ave. It’s just off Sunset Blvd. in the Silverlake side of the 101 Freeway. There is free street parking along this open street, but none available. Down one of the residential streets I turn and hillside parking is found in front of somebody’s house.

The walk is brief through the shadows and under a shaggy tree with hanging leaves reaching down four feet from the ground. Parked cars along the curb make the hunch creep under the leaves a must. But once past, the Hyperion Tavern comes into view, seeing the rest of its charcoal black walls leading up to its matching roof. Not much around, but trees and residential homes. A few boulders sit out front in the dirt.

There’s no doorman checking IDs, only the chill bartender eye spotting everyone upon entry, a 21 plus place. But a Free show. Only beer is served, a cheap $4 a bottle. A few non-alcoholic beverages are also chalked in below the tiny chalkboard sized selection hanging hand written. Cash only. No beer on tap, no mixed drinks, no hard liquor, just beer in bottles. An alcohol selection just as simple as the place it’s in.

If there was a cross between a chicken coop, a storm shelter, and a deserted mountain cabin, this would be it. And throw some elegant chandeliers hanging giant a few feet overhead to spruce the place up, keeping me thinking this bare structure might not collapse after all. I’m glad I wasn’t in here on Tuesday noon when that 5.4 earthquake hit, though it apparently made it through the tremor without being condemned. That’s the feel of this joint with its bar in the middle with one man tending it full oval. Wooden stools settle around the bar and a few in the back next to the bookshelf wall filled with an odd assortment of encyclopedias and law books. And that’s about it for this hole in the hillside dive. Maximum capacity is seventy people, though that would have to be with a few people squished shoulder to shoulder next the bartender, some in the restroom, and quite possibly standing on the bar itself.

The stage is a tiny bit more spacious that the crowding room. A smidge platform, a plank three feet above the floor, a little higher than the stools, for that is what lines against the stage for steps. Awaiting bands stuff their gear underneath. Thick ruffled red curtains and a few spotlights brighten the area. Stereo speakers hanging stage side plays ease music until the bands start, and then are turned off completely. The reason for killing the speakers dead?

It’s a Thursday night and the unique concept about these Thursday night showcases is that it’s all acoustic, pure acoustic. No use of speakers, no amps, or any electrical equipment, completely electricity free. The reasoning motto is, “Our grandpappies didn’t need it so why should we?” Performances are scheduled to start around 9pm, but tonight began closer to 10. There were three bands posted to perform tonight, performing about a half hour each, and about a half hour apart.

When the first band began, the room went quiet, including the “cha-ching” of the vintage cash register being used. A very courteous atmosphere for the musicians, especially when the singer didn’t have a microphone! Yes, this is truly an acoustic show, on all levels, even vocals. And the show sounded amazing: raw, pure, with only unadulterated talent to be heard.

As the set progressed, there were a few mumbling in the far back along with beer bottle clanking dead in the trash can and the sound of restroom doors being used, but for the most part, this shack show was a truly unique experience. There can be no other place more stripped down than this place, even the men’s restroom is just a sink and single wall stall that flushes louder than banging pipes in a library. An outhouse small restroom with a hole port cut in the door, head height, for one to see if it’s in use. The ladies closet is on the opposite side.

There’s a lot of clutter in the place, assorted antiques of appearance scattered, adding the dusty attic feel to the list of other stuffy places it resembles, and how about that wonderful carp painting swimming across the floor. A place that could be either a nook or a cranny, but too small to be both. Not sure what exactly this tavern once might have been, except for maybe a two car storage parked with old Model Ts back when this city’s name was new. Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t air-conditioned, then or now. It got kind of warm hot, making beer very effective. Like cold beer on a dehydrated hot day.

Is it worth returning? Definitely. This place is true to heart for being all that it isn’t. I’m surprised they didn’t make it all electricity free with only candles burning and beer being served from a tin tub of ice.

And that’s it for the review, for if it was any longer it wouldn’t do justice in resembling the humble size of this shed. Now back outside to sit on that cold rock, check messages on my cell phone, and have a nice warm smoke, flaring it up with my electro-spark butane lighter. See you at the next show, if you could find this aloof hideaway.

The Irish Goodbye & Gene Wilder @ The Cat Club

2008-03-11T22:30:00.000-07:00

The Cat Club
8911 Sunset Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA 90069

Event: The Irish Goodbye, Gene Wilder
When: Currently every second Tuesday of the month
This Tuesday: March 11, 2008

After seeing and hearing The Irish Goodbye end a late night a Safari Sam’s (2/23/08), I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of them. My photographer friend, J.M.Hebron, and I were there that night to cover a different band, Fuji Minx, which played second in a long line-up night of six bands total. It was a clobbering of bands that evening, but it was a Friday night and we made the most of it, both drinking our fill and Hebron in between taking photographs. So, when The Irish Goodbye finally took the stage after midnight, they sounded good right at first keyboard stroke, then in following minutes, the next song started declining into somewhat good, then something slipped completely. The lead still had flavor as he bounced between his talents on keyboard and acoustic guitar, depending on song, but the backing vocals and supporting vocals were a wreck, somewhat of a headache, but, was it just the product of a spinning hangover kicking in as I was trying to sober a bit before we were to get forced out to the piss smelling curb after the show? That’s where it ended in a bit of aching confusion. Like when ordering a tequila-7 and tasting Cactus Cooler. On top of the ringing in the ears getting louder. And trapping the bells between my palms didn’t help either.

Fortunately, Hebron did shoot quite a few photographs of The Irish Goodbye. And after posting them and getting a positive reaction from the band, I asked if we could come and review their show at The Cat Club, where they played every second Tuesday of the month with Gene Wilder. Kevin Brennan, the lead singer, guitar, and keyboardist of the group was happy to welcome us to another gig, and this time Hebron and I got there a little later in order to not get too wasted, specifically myself, before The Irish Goodbye were to take the stage once again, on a different night, at a different venue, and I in a better state of mind. It did all turn out a little different, but not much.

The opening image is a black skirt awning butting out over the club front, lettered with “The Cat Club” and “8911 On The Strip” in white. It’s another shop front looker in West Hollywood, connected and compacted between a purple skirted deli and some other eatery. The only difference is that The Cat Club has one large window, the length of a beer guitar and a second neon sign, blocked from inside with a curtain kept dark to keep the inside private. In front, two steps and a ramp both lead to a leather rock jacket in jeans standing next to the door, he was the guy taking money and names. He seemed like a guy that would bum a smoke before giving anybody any notice. I asked if there was a list for The Irish Goodbye, and he replied something to the quirky aspect of: “There sure is!” He flipped out a clipboard and we gave our names. The regular cover is $8, or $5 with flyer, but he had found us on the list. Then he kindly pushed the door open for us, nearly smacking a lady that in time poked forward her guitar case to block protection – Thump. No incident. We let the whole scene and the rest of that band filter out before heading inside.

Right inside to the left was the hectic stage confused with cheetah carpet and the next band sorting and trying to make sense of all their gear, but were not the gang known as The Irish Goodbye. It’s a small stage for about three musicians to fit comfortably spread out guitar head touching guitar strap. The backdrop is that curtain seen from the outside covering the window. Having the drapes open would show the backside, backstage view of the performance from the sidewalk, which wouldn’t be such a bad idea as an inviting window dressing, but obviously the club felt otherwise.

Searching further into the club, none of the member of The Irish Goodbye could be found in this place that resembles a road tour tribute, a quaint little place for touring musicians and roadies searching for a place to reminisce when not on the road. It has all the looks of a big scale tour production miniaturized to 1/100th the size and stuffed into a intimate makeshift looking VIP section: The brush silver pipe and pole tubing, trusts, spaced along the outer seating area shooting to the ceiling to hanging rails overhead where bunched open flapped spotlights burst towards stage. Slivers of fire plastic flames rise over one wall, reflecting tinsel strands and sparkles in substitution for blinding and scorching pyrotechnics. Below this fire art a couple of flame red benches accompanied with two burnt black tables with matching square block cushions scattered on the open floor for group seating directly in front of stage. A twosome barstool table at the very end periods the straight exclamation line of tables. On the opposite wall is a chemical rainbow of galvanized metal, the look of nature eroding metal that is ornamented with framed color photograph of Jane’s Addiction, Alice Cooper, and others big tour acts of the sort hanging next to photos of Catwoman from a 70’s Batman TV episode. Below is crammed with a row of six or so stools and a tall table flush against the wall’s drink ledge. A lounge bench in the back ends this section. It all feels like an improvised Coachella VIP lounge for a special backroom event. The open floor between the two walls of seating is the standing room or short path from outdoor entrance to the bar in the rear.

The search for the band continued along the bar in the rear that has the interesting appearance of being made of black road gear cases, with steel latches and labels stenciled in white, stacked perfectly into a long level serving counter. It looked like a temporary barricade that was erected between the oncoming thirsty crowd and the sole British bartender, whom I later learned is named, Ian, the same person also responsible for the show’s mission controls, having the soundboard cornering the end of the bar. On top of the nightly duties when Ian’s in command, he also books shows that are considered singer/songwriter showcases, such as this one. This is the main man to get to know if you’re a band, though if he is interested he’ll likely ask the band to send in a demo, and will not accept it over the counter. Just a likely FYI.

After getting served the only beer on tap, Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat, for $6 in a pint glass, and getting a $6 Heineken bottle for J.M.Hebron, there was still no sign of Brennan and the gang. So, we clanked beers and waited a while as I sipped my citrus tasting beer with a lemon on the edge that was quickly discarded.

The next band began into their set, but was of not much notable interest, or I wasn’t interested taking their sounds to mind at the moment. I instead saw over the counter two television monitors showing another live performance of some sort, older, and definitely not shot in this bar, similar to the rock photography seen earlier. It was like we were hanging out in some rock musician’s hideaway cellar, a private monument, with all the memorabilia spoils of a road tour brought home and setup in this basement cozy place. There is even a set of basement looking stairs across from the bar that lead up top to a single black door, which in earlier years opened into a smoking lounge with a window overlooking the stage. The one-sided window is still overhead, but now it's a windshield of a chrome steel tour bus passing over the bar, as if instead of having a mounted head of a deer, there is the mounted front end of a bus, a real heavy metal idea.

Seeing that the upstairs was closed, the one other place to smoke is in the back where the bar trails off into a bright white light entering through the alley door; a light that seemed glaring compared to the single light bulb dimness interior having mixed color gels shinning towards stage.

And the unforgiving light from the back door lead to exactly that, an alley. It’s not the typical alley, but rather a narrow back path, sort of service entrance, to The Cat Club and the other connecting chains of businesses along side, though only seemed to be in use by the club. The other businesses had their back doors fenced, chained, and lock rusted, making it clear that no rear entry was allowed. The path is closed in with a wall jutting prison high, barricading hill and dirt on opposite side. A fence way atop trims level with the back parking lot paved on the steep inclined Hollywood Hills. The back exit, an extended length of concrete steps, lead up to an iron gate unlocking one way to the $8 parking location. It looks as though you can’t enter, only exit, the club from back here, but there were a couple of attendants in the lot looking shady and conspicuous for bribery with a few tricks possibly hidden up in their toupees. That is the right hand path with flood lights ending at the stairway to the hillside parking. Made an about face turn and peered into the light that delved into darkness on the opposing end of the path. There was no clear trace of what could be seen at that opposite end, though there were a few murmurings and patters heard.

And that’s where The Irish Goodbye and company were gathered, in the dark end, like stray alley cats finding refuge in a forgotten corner beside a busted awning, cracked crates, wobbly chairs, scarred benches, and their piles of gear among it all. If there was a hot plate on the ground, I would’ve sworn that I had stepped into their living quarters. Without that it just seemed to be their regular broken-in comfortable corner digs every second Tuesday they were there.

Kevin Brennan, the gentleman I was searching for, was found sitting at the edge of darkness with a hand cutting into the light, holding a plastic cup near empty with sparkling cola.

I introduced myself and held out my hand for a shake. The six foot guy stood up tall in his dark suit and said something to the aspect of “that’s not good,” and gave a big hug instead. It was a funny friendly hug, to say the least, and it gave me a smile. J.M.Hebron backed a little and just settled with a hand shake. On a close glance at Kevin Brennan, his appearance is of a young Nicolas Cage with bright wild eyes and excited hair. The first thought when noticing the star resemblance was to ask him if he was another relative of the Coppola family that changed his famous last name in order to gain self-recognition without the Francis Ford Coppola pull, much like Nicolas Cage had done. But I didn’t want to sound demented and strange, so instead I asked: “So, what’s the meaning in the name: The Irish Goodbye?”

He mentioned that, for those that don’t know as I didn’t, it’s an old slang term used in association with people that do not say their cordial goodbyes before leaving a place of friends and acquaintances. Making a silent exit without the handshakes, smiles, future promises, and roundabout hat tipping. “Same as a Paris goodbye.”

The continuing conversation between Kevin Brennan, J.M.Hebron, and I, along with the passing introduction and arrival of friends and band members, consisted of numerous scattered info on The Cat Club, The Irish Goodbye’s band members, and Kevin Brennan’s other endeavors. It wasn’t at all an interview, but rather a very insightful and intuitive conversation for J.M.Hebron and I. But first Kevin Brennan excused himself for a moment and went into the club.

He returned with a full fizzing cup of soda, took a few sips, then asked for another moment, went into the darkness of the alley for a brief, and then returned once again, fuller cup, all cheers. “We don’t get drink tickets around here,” said Kevin Brennan. I smiled, raised my beer to his “soda” and said: “Cheers!”

I then asked about his interesting accent that wasn’t too southern and wasn’t too surfer dude. He answered that it was a bit of Chicago home, Texas schooling, and the rest from relocating to Los Angeles. This interesting accent also carries over into his singing, as I had heard the first time and was intrigued. I did not ask about the vocals of Suzanne May, the duet and backup singer, though it was later revealed that she is not only a “singer,” but is also currently part of a film project with star actor Sam Rockwell (Matchstick Men, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind). That was great to hear, in consideration to what I would hear from her later, again. And to now throw some attention off of that thought, it was guitarist, Dan Houlbrook’s birthday. “Happy birthday!” and handshake to him. Yay!

In addition to leading The Irish Goodbye, Kevin Brennan is also part of a comedy troupe called The Vacationeers. They do comedy at Tangier in Los Feliz from time to time and also shoot skits that are posted on their site. One of The Vacationeer’s shorts entitled, “Google Maps,” garnered over a million hits and was recently short featured on a CNN segment. So, Mr. Brennan is an actor after all, hmmm…

It was soon closing in on show time for The Irish Goodbye, and so, J.M.Hebron and I thanked Kevin Brennan and the other band members around, and then went back inside the club for another drink and a comfortable seat. While J.M.Hebron grabbed a couple of drinks and seats, I took to the restroom.

The restrooms are directly across from the bar. The interesting thing about it is that it has a sliding door. No hinges. It’s the usual room with one, one, and one. No door lock. The place is clean enough to drop a deuce, if somebody is willing to guard the door.

After the quick relief, I took my seat close to the stage at one of the red fire lounge booths. J.M.Hebron got his camera ready, got up, and got into position. The Irish Goodbye were just finishing their stage preparations.

Four other bands started the night that had now come, played, and gone. It soon turned time for that two for Tuesday every second Tuesday of the month special: The Irish Goodbye and Gene Wilder. It comes as follows:

(The Irish Goodbye) photo by J.M.Hebron

At 10:30: The Irish Goodbye pours out tough love and emotionally thick vocals and lyrics with punctuations of comedic satire from that lead vocalist, keyboardist, and acoustic guitar trembler, Kevin Brennan. His interesting vocals resembles a long drawl cattle ranger Texan with a throat parch dry by Chicago swift winds and refined smoothed by Pacific coast waters that blends into a unique and distinct charismatic yet brittle voice that can only be owned by Brennan himself. He sounds of pieces of where he has been and who he has become, road memories and all. It’s a side of sensitive struggle and life encouragement that he only seems to be able to express with his music, a side that was not noticeable in his casual friendly conversations or in his multiple comedic sketches in The Vacationeers.

But, The Irish Goodbye does have one song of over indulging comedic flaunting absurdity entitled, “Who’s Making Love in The Middle of My Gang Bang.” Kevin Brennan really opens up to comedy stand-up on the introduction to this song, asking the crowd for a raise of gang bang lovin’ hands. Then he lets loose into the song, into the crowd, jumping off stage, looking and hoping it seems for a gang bang in the bunch, being leashed only by the mic cable he grips that makes himself be heard loud and impulsively clear. Don’t let him get too close or he might make things too enticing to handle. This is their one stretched humorous song that lightens the dramatic mood of their performance, like a bit of laughter to ease an emotionally tense moment. Though the song sounds out of place, it still appears to be every part Kevin Brennan. While some bands have their one slow ballad, The Irish Goodbye has instead a one song laugh out loud gang bang.

Backing the charged vocals are Kevin Brennan’s brother, Tim Brennan on bass guitar, Dan Houlbrook on guitar, Suzanne May as backup vocals or at times duet vocals, and a new drummer named Carl. It’s a lot of backing that keeps pace and adds depth and thunder to the lightning strike heart vocals, trickling keys, and hallow acoustic strings played by Kevin Brennan as he leads the steady pace of grey sky sustenance.

The only slight jag of The Irish Goodbye is the chorus vocals of the band and of the backup and duet singer, which is part of their live performance, but luckily not used in their recorded tracks. The backup and duet singer seems to have a peaking shriek in her voice that does not carry well, like an out-of-tune electric guitar too close to a speaker. This is what I had also heard the first time, but was uncertain of, though this time, at this place, the sound levels of her vocals were lower, causing them to be better drowned behind instrumentals. As for the vocal chorus from the backing players, they are even and clean, but because Kevin Brennan’s voice is so unique and distinct, they do not chime in true chorus when attempting to sing in harmony. It’s like having ‘N Sync singging in chorus with B.B.King. Some vocals are best kept solo. But these extra vocals might be a work in progress, like the band itself, which continues to showcase their gig each month while hopefully nailing down that permanent drummer from this night forward. If not, The Irish Goodbye are still an entertaining bunch to meet and greet along with the rest of their gathering troupe all likely to be ever found in that darkened back alley every second Tuesday of the month.

After their forty-five minute set, they cleared their equipment from stage and disappeared through the back.

But there was no cause to rush the evening done, for Gene Wilder and his band was still to come. At 11:30, fifteen minutes after The Irish Goodbye were done, Gene Wilder and his crew were ready and begun. (This is not the Gene Wilder, film actor of comedic renown.)

(Gene Wilder) photo by J.M.Hebron

Gene Wilder has a live performance voice similar to the drowning sorrow thickness and rhythmic fluttering of Morrissey, which is heard in the song, “I Miss You.” In other songs he brings a subtler less accented tone, somewhat of a slightly livelier, yet suppressant, crinkle folk rock feel. His diverse vocals were backed tonight by his acoustic guitar, strapped around his woven dress coat, making him look like a scruffy street traveling pauper musician. His right hand man, in dark suit and dark glasses under grey tweed hat, hooted on harmonica or accompanied with a saxophone bellowing like an intermittent fog horn. In the back was the drummer keeping low key and less distinct as with his steady beat. They sound of an experimental backyard storage shed band, not exactly a suburban garage rock or a farm barn feel. It’s more of a makeshift spontaneous impulse scatter of sorts. Unstable vocals, horn, harmonica, and acoustic guitar taped together with unwavering drums. An art of rough textured mixed media acoustics. Each song has its own unframed and untethered appreciation value. Very desirable once the listener can relax the mind and not discern the influx of peculiar irregularities. This intricate Gene Wilder artistic display held for thirty minutes.

At midnight the show ended. The Cat Club was near empty. The Irish Goodbye never returned, though they were likely partying up the birthday boy in the back alley. J.M.Hebron packed his camera. We finished our drinks. We thought for a moment to head out back to say our goodbyes, but we figure it would be most appropriate to give them our own Irish goodbye, and did so.

(CLICK HERE for complete photo set by J.M.Hebron)

*(UPDATE: April 16, 2008)*

Reply excerpt from Kevin M. Brennan:

"I appreciate all of it. Just a quick note in Suzanne's defense, she had a ton of trouble hearing herself at that gig. We've also gotten feedback from friends that The Cat Club is not the best soundwise of the places we've played. I love Ian to death, but running sound AND mixing drinks is a daunting task."

"Dan is building a home studio as we speak, so hopefully we'll have some new recordings for you soon."

Marathon Live @ 3 Clubs

2008-02-20T22:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Tilt L.A. @ Jimmy's Lounge

2008-02-10T22:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Parking: Sunset Blvd., West Hollywood 90069

2008-02-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

View Larger Map

8755 W. Sunset Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA 90069

Above is the address and map for an inexpensive and no hassle parking lot just down the street from The Viper Room for those Mr. Shovel’s Check One . . . Two Monday nights, or Can of Jam evenings, or a Sean Healey Presents line-up, or any other full night of Indie artists; or if going to the historic all ages Whisky a Go-Go for a No Bozo Jam Monday, a sold-out small venue commercial name concert some other day, or to a “pay-to-play” night with friends that pay to watch friends play; or maybe the interest is what’s happening a few doors down at The Cat Club for Singer Songwriter nights Tuesday and Wednesday with a feisty line-up of bands similar to any other night at this place; or keep strolling further along the boulevard in the cool coastal breeze Hollywood air to the red radiating neon tubes of The Roxy Theatre for a ticket required, semi-big-name-spotlight Live Nation concert event, or an evening becomes eclectic KCRW Presents, or a Filter Magazine purified local artist packed night; or maybe a literal step above the music is preferred at On The Rox for The Queen Presents, or Annie Presents, or any other promoter or booker presenting something different from the poured straight-up sound happenings below; or maybe the colorful alcohol feel is to go to find an outside table for late eats at Rainbow Bar and Grill in a chatter packed crowd, then inside for live music and big name stars ice cool chillin’ out of the spotlight; or if star searching isn’t an appeal, then maybe the edge blue glow and flashing screens of Key Club is the attraction find for drink ticket required for those under 18 at Metal Skool Mondays or local upcoming sounds heard here on Ruby Tuesdays, or any other music event unlocking a night full of entertainment showcasing down the street from the inexpensive and hassle free parking lot. And that’s just to name a few things of what might be happening at this section of the Sunset Strip.

Now here’s the gist of the parking lot spelled out (which is also explained simple by the Google map posted). It’s a large lot of 78 total parking spots for visitors all day Saturday and Sunday, and weekdays arriving after 6pm (only 40 spots for visitors parking before 6pm on the weekdays; the other thirty-eight spots are designated for permit parking, but only until 6pm). This is a self-parking lot that does not have an attendant on duty collecting keys and doing a Tetris shuffle with cars every ten minutes or having to move five cars to retrieve yours in the far rear. There is an unmanned booth in the center of traffic at the entrance splitting the right lane open entrance from the other side where a yellow automatic gate raises for exiting only, which also keeps the incoming traffic clear of any confusion on which lane to use. Also, this is an open, well lit, lot and not a parking structure with dark corners and urine puddles and unbearable stenches in the staircases, but since it is an open lot, it is not protected from the rain and other natural elements. Not sure if there is any covered parking in this vicinity of the strip. As if it matters for those once upon a time rain showers that are phenomenons in Los Angeles.

After parking your car in front of the bright friendly yellow wall reading “PUBLIC PARKING” painted bigger than any letters on a billboard, a parking stall that is usually between a spendthrift SL Mercedes and a silver platter penny saver Audi A6, there is a sense of comfort that your car will be safe sandwiched between these more attractive vehicles. Yes, this lot is cheap, but there is nothing cheap about the wide array of cars that park here. Sometimes there’s even a limousine waiting to take passengers up to parties in the hills, as the black cap chauffeur driver is standing around asking almost everybody if they are there for the Mr. Big Shot Mansion Party. If you have the spontaneous attitude for risky adventure, just say “Yes, I’m here for the Mr. Big Shot Mansion Party,” and see where the limo driver takes you. This limo thing happened a few times. It’s crazy. Never said “Yes,” though.

Whatever the case, the first thing necessary is to pay the parking machine. Each parking spot is numbered; so look down below your rear bumper and see what that number is before heading to the meter, or you’ll be back. The meter is next to the entrance across from the empty entrance booth.
The rates are as follows:

Visitor Parking Rates:
$1 per hour 8am to 5pm.
$4 flat rate after 5pm - Sunday thru Thursday.
$6 flat rate after 5pm - Friday and Saturday.
Lot closes at 2:30am.

The machine only accepts cash and coins (though there is a slot for a credit card, it is not in service). To pay for parking is simple: punch in the parking spot number, put in the money, and take your ticket. That it. You’re paid up 'til the lot closes. If you need to break big bills ($20), there is The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf adjacent to the lot that is often kind enough to exchange for smaller currency without having to buy anything.

If one really wants to try to save money and get Free parking in this lot, look for tickets on the ground, in the slot, or on top of the machine. People leaving early sometimes are very kind and thoughtful; they place their ticket on or near the machine as they head back to their vehicles. If you happen to find one of these tickets, make sure the date is correct; make sure the date is the next day 02:30am. Example: if you get to the lot at 8pm on the 21st, make sure the ticket you find is printed: EXP 02:30am on the 22nd. Sometimes there are a load of tickets with different dates. If you do this, you then have to make sure the parking spot number on the ticket is available and then you need to move your car into the spot. A word of advice: Don’t be cheap and attempt this if you’re on a date or with somebody you don’t want to embarrass. Sometimes the tickets are even wet! But one can also think about it this way: Would you move your car to make a quick $4 or $6?

Another opportunity for Free parking in this lot is when the ticket machine is broken. For whatever reason, sometimes the machine won’t take any method of payment. If this occurs, this is simply the sign of the beginning of a good evening. There are a few phone numbers on the machine and above on the sign. One of the numbers is for the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department (LASD) and the other is for the West Hollywood Mobile Dispatch. If there is a group of confused and frustrated people hanging around the machine that have yet to call one of the numbers, be the initiator and call if you have a cell phone available. An officer will answer the phone, tell him the situation of the broken meter, then the officer will mumble some words of don’t worry about it or it’s okay to continue to park your vehicle without pay. Get the officer’s name if you really want to play it safe. That’s it. It’s now Free. Tell the others around the situation. Be the hero; it might be the ice breaker to start an interesting conversation with those helpless blonde girls in short black skirts having trouble with the machine, heading not sure where, but just might be where you suddenly feel like heading tonight.

The final bit of helpful information is to mention the unisex restroom located on the outside patio of The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on the corner. This has got to be the cleanest, most private, and most comfortable public toilet on the Sunset Strip. It is the size of a small storage room with one toilet, sanitary toilet seat protection sheets, a sufficient amount of toilet paper, one sink, one mirror, one liquid soap dispenser, paper hand towels, and two wooden wall cabinets to make one feel at home. Very spotless and clean enough for some dirty fun for those one-night stands or couples seeking a private moment from the public, yet wanting to have a little fun in West Hollywood without having to get a room. It is that clean and that inviting and you don’t have to go into the coffee shop to get to it. Oh, and it is always unlocked if not in use; therefore, one doesn’t have to go inside and ask for a coin or key to open this fun box. Just slip in, do your thing, and slip out. There might be some coffee sipping people on the patio, but the only thing they might do is stare, at the most. Whatever the case, this restroom is well suited and located for any private bodily release. Ahhhh . . . baby.

Suckerstar @ Whisky A Go-Go

2008-01-21T21:45:00.000-08:00

Whisky A Go-Go
8901 Sunset Blvd.
Hollywood, CA 90069
(310) 652-4202 X 6 (nightly band line-up)

Event: No Bozo Jam
Date: January 21, 2008
Day: Monday
(All Ages, All The Time)

Imagine seeing The Doors, Buffalo Springfield, Love, and Van Morrison singing vocals with the band Them with Frank Zappa guest appearing, all in one night, at one place, in a little venue on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Clark Street in Hollywood. That is the history of the Whisky A Go-Go in the summer of ‘66. At the time, The Doors were the residency band playing every night for nearly a four month stretch, opening for other music legends in the making, until James Douglas Morrison had a falling out with the club owner. Since then, the place has also been given credit for nurturing recent rock greats such as Guns N’ Roses and Mötley Crüe. In 2006, The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and Museum finally recognized Whisky A Go-Go as a landmark for their remarkable contribution and influence on music history. A well deserved honor.

In the beginning of 2008, near the end of January, on a drizzling Monday night, Whisky A Go-Go’s headlining band for the evening was Suckerstar. Raven’s Cry, Makeshift Bronson, Cast of Kings, Vicious Licks, and Phonocast were the opening and after acts. It was a No Bozo Jam.

Starting out the night, heading towards the exterior of Whisky A Go-Go is like walking up to a giant billboard wrapped around a corner of a street. The only indication of an entrance, or resemblance to a building, is the long black awning with the club’s beatnik chic female logo on the end sticking out between fifty foot tall advertisements of Mountain Dew, Heineken, new album releases, and other oversized and overwhelming paper commercials that should be towering atop fifty foot poles and not at ground level making one have to stand in the street and nearly get run over to see them completely. With advertisements abound on nearly every inch of the exterior; it won’t likely be long before the blank stretch of awning is covered with ads as well. This club is currently known to be mostly a “pay-to-play” venue, but now it seemed clear that they were renting out both sides of the wall. The one good visual about the exterior is that the center marquee facing the corner of the street is also giant, clear and obvious as a magazine cover, large enough to bill all six bands playing tonight; situated black block letters on white under the red script neon name: “Whisky A Go-Go.” Wonder how much that premium ad space cost the bands? But another redeeming quality to this place is that there is a plaque off to the side, slightly in the dark, the commemoration given by The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Like a medal around the neck.

With the exterior visuals taken in, followed the “whiskyagogo.com” above, painted down the length of the awning leading to the little ticket window where set times were posted and tickets were being sold for $7, or $5 with flyer discount (other nights vary in prices). Doors tonight were at 8pm, with the first band at 8:15, as read on the paper taped to the glass. Before seeing this paper with exact start and end times for the bands, there was no other complete listing posted previously anywhere else, not even on the website. The only set time that matched from the assortment of flyers created and posted individually by the bands was that Suckerstar’s set started at 9:45. Other flyers seen earlier stated the doors were at 7:30 or had set times close but not exact. Every flyer found leading up to this night was like another piece of the puzzle that didn’t match-up. Didn’t even know Makeshift Bronson was playing until getting to the window and realizing their set was almost over. If one doesn’t follow the bands, Whisky A Go-Go is one of the hardest places to find out who’s playing. Even the club’s general information line is vague. It seems that every band is only responsible for promoting their show and not the rest of the line-up. There was no single flyer or listing for the entire line-up until seeing it at the window. This was not turning out to be a very likable venue.

Then got a square little ticket with the Whisky A Go-Go logo on it slid under the glass to me, nice momentary souvenir, until turning around, taking one step, and giving it to the door attendant. He pocketed the ticket, checked ID for drinking, got a stamp on the wrist to drink, and then entered through the open glass door where Security stood and made everybody spread arms for a body check. Photography of any sort was okay, but no video recording, absolutely a no-no, said clear and specific as he patted down shirts and pants.

($200 table minimum)

Once inside, to the immediate left is a step leading to four rock star red slick lounge booths with $100 table minimum (credit card only as stated on the small placard), and a single super large 10+ crowd booth at the snug end in the corner in reaching distance for an insolent tug on the bartender’s torn cleavage shirt, the bar begins where the back cushions ends with a $200 table minimum (credit card only as stated on the small placard). Glamour lights above tucked under the second level and step lights at toes adorn these lavish seats where individual Jack Daniel’s signs serve as backdrop to each booth. (It is likely that these booth minimums change depending on event.) The irony of the expense is that these are one of the worst stage viewing seats in the house, too far back to see anything, only good for sitting next to the entrance and being pompous.

(first level bar)

The bar at the end is class in itself: wood grain, Western saloon cowboy style with a cash register that appears to have been in use since the day they opened, a push button cha-ching machine. It’s not a long bar, but good size enough for one slim female bartender to serve up drinks and take food orders. She serves up drinks pretty fast, and if it does take time, enjoying her scenery isn’t a bad wait. A couple of Jack Daniel’s stools scatter at its edge, next to the top to bottom wall of passing through musician photos, current color performances mainly, beside the wall mounted Jack Daniel’s barrel top. The mark of Jack Daniel’s is all over the place, which not a problem, except for maybe Jim Beam enthusiasts.

The alcohol starts at $6 domestic beer and well drinks for $7, both served in opaque plastic cups. But this is one place, as it will be described, that plastic cups actually enhance the stripped down atmosphere of the venue. And yes, there is food served, starting at $5 for a large plate of curly fries, fried fresh, with about a ten minute wait, about three songs. Tasted good for the place and price. $7 will get a cheeseburger and fries, which might be a temptation for next time.

The rest of Whisky A Go-Go can best be described as a two story venue that has been burned charcoal mellowed black and grey, much like the Jack Daniel’s process to create a heavy, flavorful and unique tasting bourbon whiskey. It is amazing how much bigger the place looks from the inside, a little smaller than the size of a one court gym with ceilings the same height, but everything charred and ash, no color, like a desert night without stars. The feeling feels the same: the relaxing simplicity of wide open space without color or visual bombardment. There is another saloon bar near the stage, but tonight it was only serving as decoration. With the exception of the deluxe booths and two stools, no other seating on the first floor, just standing room only extending between the lounge carpet to the open floor to the stage at the opposite far end corner; a stage that is five steps above the crowd and at least four times as deep and toped with a center raised platform for the drummer. No stage diving (unless you want Security to throw you diving onto the sidewalk). The stage is dark and desolate until the classic rock playing DJ lowers the volume and the next band glares under an attack of multicolored spinning lights that beam like a UFO invasion.

(Suckerstar) photo by J.M.Hebron

Suckerstar burst bright with star sunglasses sparkling exactly at 9:45. The sunglasses were soon disposed as they smashed into thick rock. They are a force sprung of four females cranking Rock & Roll hardcore: tattoos penetrating down the arms of lead singer and guitarist Wendy Lee, Guns N’ Roses paraphernalia thrown on by death black hair second vocalist and guitarist Punky, busted jeans and a “I Think I’m In Hell” trucker hat pulled low over Blare N. Bitch attitude on bass guitar, and pounding Lanie Fire on drums slamming head whips and hell fire. Rock & Roll musicians never looked and sounded so filthy sexy on stage, unless accompanied by full bodied skimpy girls dancing out-of-rhythm. Suckerstar themselves were the veteran seductive, rubbing on instruments amplifying their sweet sweaty adrenaline foursome. Lee and Punky traded off on lead guitar and vocal thrusting: Lee with the sharp switchblade razor edge slit wrist sound unobstructed from her lungs, slipping her tongue, to listener’s ears, straight through, no torture, simply fast and pleasurable, like slicing butter with a hot wire taken from the guitar she squealed and strangled throughout the set. On the other end, Punky’s vocals were more course, barbwire, gravel rocks, cigarette scarred harsh, a more rough and grit sound, like being dragged across dirt and busting teeth concrete. Wendy Lee’s vocals shank’d and stabbed while Punky’s punched and pummeled. Their opposite extreme vocals and guitar spasms played out hotter than a rollercoaster smoking steel wheels on a soot black tarmac to hell and back. If there was a star in space named Suckerstar, it would be an imploding black hole star turning everything inside out and sucking truth and reality out of control and spitting it out the other end in disgust, similar to what the band exemplifies in their music. This band couldn’t be more in your face unless they were sitting on it, which is a possibility with such pure crazed rock stars.

If their Rock & Roll didn’t hit the listener upside the head, there’s a chance that a rattle shaker might. Before their final song, Punky started flinging out cans of all kinds, beer cans, tin cans, pop top cans, filled with kernel corn with their logo across the front; this was makeshift dirty music at its best, and an imaginative use of recycling. The crowd of cans shook like dozens of rattlesnake tails that were being lead by the venomous four headed Suckerstar animal on stage striking chords wild beneath the spiraling rainbow of lights above, twisting and winding, shake the cans damn it shake!, until they were killed by the dimming lights that ended their set. Everything slipped back into calm as the classic rock DJ returned to casual volume.

After the impressive show, it was time for a break, a breather, as if waiting for the next display of fireworks. Going to the restrooms was a scary thought, but the beer was taking its toll. That’s when one notices the wall of flyers between the opening to the men’s and women’s restrooms. It’s the designated spot to post flyers for upcoming events; the wall to plan the next outing to the Whisky while waiting for your man or lady to finish in the restroom. When heading under the moon neon script “Restroom” pointing to the men’s entrance, the thought of holding breath and hoping not to slip on the waters of overflowing toilets and towels came to mind. But to a strange delight, it was nothing of the sort. The room was bright and sparkling. No stickers on the wall. No graffiti, except for the small amount on the advertisements, which are itself corporate graffiti screwed into protective frames on the wall that are forced to be looked at when standing at one of the three spotless white porcelain wall stalls; graffiti upon graffiti in its designated spot. There’s one clean toilet stall with all the necessary amenities, but with a busted door lock, making one realize why the toilet paper was still a new roll. A clean sink, liquid soap, and a hand blower complete the waxed sheen surroundings. Stepping out of the bright restroom and back into the club was like stepping out of a hotel and into an alley, that’s how strangely clean it was.

For some reason, having a clean restroom leads me to believe that the area where food is being prepared would be comparably as clean. It’s not like the kitchen has its own private toilets, though it’s a possibility. With that said, ordering something on the short menu of food came to mind. This was where the curly fries came to a taste test that turned out delicious. Ordered the fries, waited the quick ten minutes, picked-up the toppling plate from the bar, and carried it up the lights of the stairs to settle down and enjoy on the second floor.

(second level bar)

The second floor is where the normal, non-hundred dollar credit card minimum, tables are located. Given, they are not as glitzy as the brass button seating on the first floor, but to get away from the squish and beer splash crowd below, this is it. Almost everything on this level is once again a flat black and dull gray, from the tables to the chairs to the wood charred like railing to the bare walls to the dark carpeting – all simple, straight edged, and colorless. The lacquer wood bar that appears plywood-made with brick alley walls fitted in the corner looks like a playhouse of neon amusement with rainbow squiggly beer logos and drink menus eye catching over the mortar, with few Jack Daniel’s stools, but not an area worth sitting longer than it takes to get served a drink, unless the sweet slip bartender feels chatty. The prime, get there early spots are the eight tables perpendicular along the edge of the L-shaped railing, four tables on each length with four chairs apiece (all tables supposedly have a two-drink minimum per person, but there was no enforcement except the small print mention on the menu table placard). With the stage in the opposite corner and the speakers angled towards the center, the tables are great for getting a balcony view with unobstructed sound. There are three more four-chair tables and two round Jack Daniel’s stool tables with matching Jack Daniel’s stools along the back wall on each side, but the only visible entertainment from these seats is the wonderful stage lighting; so maybe this would be a good spot to just watch the rainbow light show accompanied with live unseen music. But that’s the thing: anywhere in Whisky A Go-Go is a good spot to hear the band loud and crisp, with the exception of the restroom. The venue feels like a music cube where sound does not bounce, distort, or gets muddled. It is definitely loud, but it is so comfortably clear that it feels like ambience music, meaning, no matter who plays, the music doesn’t get annoying or overbearing at any time. The bass isn’t body pounding (though some say they only turn on the bass for the headlining act), and the listener can actually hear and understand the lyrics being sung, not just the repeating chorus! One doesn’t realize how head exploding loud it is until you find yourself screaming your throat dry at the bartender or the person next to you. Watching a band is like finding yourself in Best Buy glued in perfect center of a surround sound HD home theatre display; it doesn’t matter what movie is playing, the visual and sound experience is astounding (until one sees the multi-thousand dollar price tag for it all). So, that’s how pure the sound system felt while chomping down crisp curly fries and washing the hot oil down with another cold beer. Cast of Kings was the band playing in the background with their manager filling in as their bass player, or something like that, asking the crowd if there was somebody seriously interested in joining the band to fill that missing gap for their next show; one of many struggles of an independent artist. The strength is keeping it going, regardless.

(second level seated view)

It was time to call it an evening when the plate of curly fries was nothing more than an oily paper towel with over sizzled potato pieces. No waitresses to clean the mess; so took a moment to clean-up a bit and tossed things into the trash. No table tip needed.

I did have to ask the cute empty counter bartender one question that had been bugging me the whole night, “What’s that framed pencil sketching mounted on the wall next to the stage lights?” It had its own special spotlight and everything: one illegible framed scribble on the empty gray wall. “It’s a graphite rubbing of Jim Morrison’s headstone,” she answered. So, there it was, a bit of early music history was found after all.

The preconception of Whisky A Go-Go was expecting to find myself in a place similar in appearance to images seen from the well-known loving trash pit that made CBGB so infamous. But it was nothing of the sort – it was well maintained and clean. From the wall-to-wall plastered advertisement exterior walking up to the venue, the thought was that it would be the same inside, full of advertisement space for sale littering the walls much like expecting to see brown toilet paper clogging the stalls. But it was nothing of the sort. After getting past the two check points at the door, thought the place was going to come heavy with attitude and constant Security surveillance. With the exception of a sign reading, “You are being recorded,” it was nothing of the sort; one Security shirt walked around the perimeter of the floor, but never bothered anybody. As mentioned, supposedly a two drink minimum at the table, but nobody bugged. This place is a chill hangout, though the Indie line-up is hit and miss, having to sometimes wait through a few bands before wanting to return downstairs into the stage front crowd. Still, a return is imminent.

*(UPDATE)*

For Bands:
Important excerpts about The Whisky A Go-Go.
Taken from Ninja Academy (Los Angeles band) blog (12/19/07):

“Let me tell you about our experience there. Perhaps you can relate. Perhaps you can learn from it.”

“So, let's get to it. First of all, parking and traffic in Hollywood IS A BITCH. The Whiskey parking is $10. I didn't want to pay that. I got lucky and got street parking right in front. I still had to put $7 in quarters in the meter (and go out there every 2 hours to feed it). Pain-in-the-ass. The cover for the night was $15. I know it varies from night to night but you've already spent $25 before you even got to see any bands play. Too much. Drinks: a beer was fucking $7 and we didn't even get any drink tickets. Bullshit. We were supposed to have a 30 minute set. We timed out an exact 30 minute set but they cut us short so we didn't even that. Fuckers. For you bands out there, be aware that the Whiskey takes 20% of your shirt sales.”

“If you want a DVD of your show it's gonna cost you $150. Take that! Also, your friends cannot go in there and record your set. They're liable to get charged $20 if they get caught. Our friend actually did this and got caught. They didn't charge him $20 but they did kick him out of the club. He couldn't get back in. Oh yeah that reminds me, the fucking door guy didn't believe that Gongis Khan was over 21! He told her that her I.D. was fake and they didn't give her a drinking bracelet! Unfuckingbelievable!! She had to go complain to the manager to get it. What's next?”

“Bands, DO NOT PAY TO PLAY. EVER! There are too many other good clubs out there that don't make you do this. What the hell is the point of having to sell 75-100 (or any) tickets just to play a 6:15pm slot? Come on, seriously. There is no need for that.”

“This experience was so disturbing to all of us that our friend, who was helping us out that night and experienced it all with us, started a Myspace page about boycotting the Sunset Strip.www.myspace.com/nomoresunsetstrip .”

(For complete blog, informative reply comments, and Ninja Academy music checkout Ninja Academy.)

Passing Through: Racoon @ Troubadour

2007-12-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

"DUTCH GOVERNMENT BACKS RACOON'S U.S. DEBUT"

That was the hook. Normally, 405 East is dedicated to the independent local and surrounding area artists of Los Angeles, for which Holland is not near on the map, or even in the same country, though racoon animals are native to North America. But somehow, with possible influence from the Dutch government, Racoon's U.S. debut album Another Day, along with an attachment of Dutch and U.S. press releases, band photographs, and a guest list invitation to a live show had made its way into 405 East's possession.

Reading further into their "Immediate Release" memos, it stated that this was an "unprecedented initiative" that was being funded by the Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Economic Affairs, and the Ministry of Education, Cultural Affairs and Science. With that in mind, and a deep interest to further investigate this well funded endeavor, and the feeling of slight government intimidation, the exception to the local artist rule was going to be tossed this once, which may become its own "unprecedented initiative" into expanding the boundaries of 405 East, which will be a discussion for later. For now, it was further burrowing into this Holland government bankrolled band.

With the press read through and a gander at the photos, it seemed like this might be a music album with influencing lyrics and traditional Dutch sounds, whatever that may be, to promote a venturing visit to the Netherlands, like you see on television advertisements to come visit Australia with kangaroos hopping on the beach, Russell Crowe look-alike spokes models, and contests to create your own video advertisement of the same theme. Well, Racoon turned out not to be an advertisement, though they have a sound that hums commercial success in the U.S.

Here's the short back story leading to their current album and their embarking journey to tour America: Racoon formed in Holland in 1997, signed with Sony BMG for two albums, and then got attached to the label Play It Again Sam for their current third album, for which the hit single "Close Your Eyes" reached platinum status in Holland, and on top of this success, they were recently praised in international news for covering John Lennon's "Working Class Hero" to help benefit Amnesty International's Make Some Noise project to aid Darfur, and now with the distributor of RedEye and the promotion and marketing from the Dutch government, Racoon is exporting their music and live show to the U.S., which would be their second visit, first tour in the states. So, with them arriving with all this overseas hype and their positive influence internationally, it should be understandable why this band can not be set aside, and that's even before listening to their music.

Thus leads to Racoon's recent album Another Day playing delightfully in American ears. The album opens with the whistling tune of "Happy Family," a sunny, green hillside jingle with a family skipping holding hands image that soon crumbles with a society focused only on "the kind of money that you make." It begins like a happy dream and ends with a waking reality infected by money, which is also the case with the following track "Hero's In Town" with a hopeful title that begins the story, but twists in the end revealing the hero is just a mercenary. The album then takes a turn towards love and relationships with trickling strings and heart blossoming lyrics to "Love You More," the double edged meaning to "Laugh About It," and the grey day, white dove flapping through the rain of "Blow Your Tears." But before the listener breaks into endless tears and weak hope misery, Another Day turns and no regret attitude and restrained emotions pick-up with "Couple of Guys," "Got To Get Out," the chained hands hope of "Brother" (reminiscent of Ben Folds Five's "Brick"), followed with the constant pressure to be "Kingsize," and to "Lose Another Day" with a lazy hammock harmonica. "If You Know What I Mean" tumble rolls downhill with gritting teeth lyrics, while the soft ballad of "Walk Away" leaves the listener on his own. "Hanging With The Clowns" has side winding serpent guitar chords that repeat with the mind to "shoot the sheriff and then shoot the deputy," and with a bang, the album ends with their hit single "Close Your Eyes," which conjures the feel and sound of The Goo Goo Dolls' hit "Iris" with an uplifting message of hope and sky scrapper top screams to believe in a life more attractive.

Racoon's U.S. debut album, Another Day, is in tune with starting another Dutch Golden Age, like Rembrandt they are able to paint a portrait of beauty upon darkness that will be highly accepted and appreciated beyond the homeland. They are a band with golden talent as if plucked from the folk geniuses of 17th century Holland with classic lutes of the time replaced with a harmonica for lead vocalist Bart van der Weide, a guitar for Dennis Huige, drums for Paul Kukkens, and bass for the backing vocalist Stefan de Kroon as they are plopped and seeded in modern Netherlands with the possibility to grow endlessly, branching world wide, starting with California.

Racoon's nineteen show American tour with the resurface of The Lemonheads started in San Francisco in late November of 2007. Their second stop was in Los Angeles at Troubadour where my friend and photographer, J.M.Hebron, and I were penciled in to see them perform.

It was an ice chilling cold night in Los Angeles on the first of December, but dressed lightly knowing that the show was going to be hot. The next big thing, comeback legends, and local favorites are often passing through Troubadour, packing the venue tight on a Saturday night in the city more commonly known as West Hollywood. Anticipation had already set-in from the atmosphere itself.

The night started with the opening band, The New Rivals (New York), which are also on the complete tour list with Racoon. This band slams punk rock on the crowd and melts the December chills into sweat and freak energy. They have a crash, bash, screaming sound of the long gone band Face to Face, which was a popular band in the original heyday stardom of The Lemonheads, making the combo perfect for the tour with the same generation of fans likely to return, such as myself. Lead singer, Toby Bevis, spit lyrics faster than a New York minute, wearing a colorful sweater vest, white collar shirt, and supporting a thick black hair spike protruding from his head. What seemed to be another entity from the past was guitarist, John Hudson, who was off to the side playing in his own isolated spotlight with face covered by dirty blond strands and wearing a grunge sweater that resembled an eerie figure of Kurt Cobain. Maybe it was him? He didn't sing. The rest of the band was plain buck wild. It was definitely a strange 90's feeling flashback opening act.

(Bart van der Weide, Racoon)

Next, Racoon casually strolled on stage like four guys from a pub that decided to do a show for the crowd, with Bart van der Weide looking like an Irish rugby player in a snug polo shirt as he double gripped the microphone, introduced the band, and eased into the first song, "Hero's In Town," for which he started to toe-tap jig and sing a few words in Dutch, making it obvious that he wasn't local and wanted to share something different with the audience. Nothing seemed common site about this interesting visiting group. With songs like "Love You More," the drummer and bass would stand aside and let an intimate spotlight shine on Dennis Huige plucking acoustic guitar and Bart van der Weide singing softly and playing a sweet settling harmonica. In others like "Hanging With The Clowns," the song began with an electric guitar like sparking power lines, which soon a current of vocals flowed in, and then the pop of the drums and the thump of the bass that all together led to a complete climax of sound. The effect is subtle when listening to the album, but performing live, the audience watched the composition of music slowly immerge into a whole.

(Racoon)

Racoon's live performance added an entertaining visual perspective to their music with a bit of friendly Holland attitude between songs. For this night's show they mainly stuck to a set list pertaining to the Another Day album, so as to likely not confuse the audience with previous songs unreleased in the states and seldom heard, for now at least. Racoon's album and live performance package is well worth every bit of Dutch government backing used to bring them and their music to America. Thank you very much Dutch government!

Ending the evening with Racoon would have been good enough to call it another eventful night in Hollywood, but curiosity of the resurging band The Lemonheads (Boston) made the night last into Sunday, where they were the final band of the evening, starting nearly an hour after their expected set time, supposedly because they were waiting for their main man to arrive, Evan Dando, the only original and constant member of the group. This tour marked the first time Dando performed live with his completely new band members consisting of drummer Bill Stevenson (Descendents, Black Flag) and bassist Karl Alvarez (Descendents). The Lemonheads' recently released self entitled album comes a decade after their previous album, Car Button Cloth, and over a decade after Dando confessed to excessive use of alcohol and drugs. Evan Dando's personal past seemed to be forgiven by the crowded house of supporting fans that packed towards the stage waiting for his appearance, waiting. When he did linger onto the empty stage, the crowd did not know whether to cheer or stare in shock, until he lifted his guitar and strapped himself in as the other band members hurried into their position and start to play, and it was then the crowd cheered in unison until Dando soon made a spectacle of himself. He was on something and was full of it, but played the guitar with tender ease like he was tickling a baby, and that was the most amazing part of his erratic performance of body jitters and playing songs that the other band members had yet to learn, but able to keep up to his rhythm as they stared at him steadily, much like the crowd. In the end he gently put down his guitar and scurried off stage, leaving the crowd speechless. Little applause. Much silence. But it was a complete show, including a solo acoustic performance. Evan Dando had made it through, somehow.

Regardless of the fate of The Lemonheads, the band Racoon makes the tour worthwhile. If Dando does not appreciate his fan support, the fans may fall into following behind the charismatic and welcoming stage presence of Bart van der Weide and the rest of Racoon, if they haven't already. This is The Lemonheads big tour return, but it looks like Racoon and The New Rivals are the bands that are going to shine and emerge with favored notoriety and continued success, though the spotlight future is especially bright for Racoon. Only fans and time will tell. The tour continues until the end of December.

Best of hope to Evan Dando. It was sad to see him wither and fade on stage as fans realized that they may be witnessing The Lemonheads' final act.

B&W Photography by J.M.Hebron

The Queen Presents @ On The Rox

2007-11-15T21:00:00.002-08:00

On The Rox
(above The Roxy Theatre)
9009 W. Sunset Boulevard
West Hollywood, CA 90069

Date: November 15, 2007
Day: Thursday
Event: The Queen Presents
(21+)

Sunset Boulevard is home to a plethora of clubs hosting live music on any given night of the week. From Taix 321 Lounge in Silverlake to Key Club in Hollywood, there are at least twenty nightly music shows to choose from on the street stretch between, and hundreds of stories to be told by the fans to the bands and from anybody else that can be found on the scene in a single evening.

This here is only one of those stories, somewhat of a review, but also includes being immersed in the club atmosphere; the sightseeing and meeting of interesting people that only graze our lives for a moment before being left behind in the memory of the experience. This Sunset review story began on a Thursday night in November on the sidewalk outside the polished steel door front of On The Rox.

It was around nine o’clock when the line started to move past the door and up the steps into the club above The Roxy Theatre. Tonight’s event was to help families in need for the holidays and the victims of the recent Southern California fires. The cost of the show was $10, but with a donation of a canned good, the price was discounted to $5. So, with a can of Campbell’s Chucky New England Clam Chowder dropped into the donation bin, a trash can next to the door attendant giving a stamp on the wrist, it was inside the show for cheap with a renewed feeling to start holiday giving.

Just inside, before the staircase to the club, there’s a door to the right that leads to The Roxy Theatre, but was locked for a different event happening on the other side. At the top of the stairs is the short hall with closet restrooms; the men’s having a toilet, a wall stall, a clean sink and all the wipings necessary, but nearly no privacy with a hole in the door where the door knob should be and no lock. This was one of the strange spots to find a lady guarding the men’s door for her friend that couldn’t wait for the women’s one stall to become available.

(On The Rox interior early in the evening)

A few steps down from the restrooms is the entrance into the club. Stepping in, a cold chill suddenly hit as either the air conditioning was set too low or the icy blue neon lacing the top drop of the bar and around the arctic blue room were playing mind games on the senses. Two slick gleaming stripper poles on the open floor along with musician photos adorning the walls fancy the place sufficient for those private aftershow parties. If not that, the room resembles a cross between a single railroad car dinner that has been frozen over in the tundra and a space station bar on the outskirts of the solar system. Three large space shuttle shaped windows look out to the black pavement night of Hollywood, keeping reality in check, though with a view of possible passing stars on the street.

(the bar)

The black bar counter, with cushion leaning edge, stretches the length of the room, but has only about five stools, which should be kindly reserved for the ladies. One female blonde bartender served the whole crowd, making patience necessary to get a drink. Mix drinks started at $8; bottle beers at $7; and beer tap served in a plastic cup for $5. While waiting to order a tequila 7-Up, the thought crossed my mind of wondering what John Belushi's first drink was on the final night of his life that he partially spent at On The Rox before he supposedly overdosed on drugs later in the evening at his home. With that, a shiver tingled through my veins with the first sip of the delivered stiff mix.

For seating other than at the bar, there are six black cushy U-booths along the wall with center split tables that seat five or six comfortably. The split table gives the effect of dividing the booth in two for separate groups of people. My friend and photographer, J.M.Hebron, was found seated on one side of the booth while proud parents of one of the band members were seated on the other end. A conversation ensued. They were supposed to be "tourists" said the mother, at least that is the line their son wanted them to say and not to tell the story of how she is a successful realtor but that a lump sum of her earnings are invested into band equipment. His parents are fans, proud supporters, and contributors to their son's dream, there is no pride gained in hiding such a fortunate loving benefit. Some people only wish they were half as lucky, and this band member wanted to hide it? It was not like they wanted to tuck in his shirt, pat his hair, and kiss him on the forehead before he took to the stage. They just casually sat in the back, or maybe they were asked to. If the band gets a show at an amphitheater, are the parents getting backstage passes, or will that embarrass their son and they be asked to keep with the rest of the audience on the floor? The undermined psychology of youth can not be compared to the grace of affectionate parents.

It was hard to get away from the friendly parents, but the floor was filling tight, blocking the view of the stage. On The Rox is deep but to get a clear view of the performance one needs to get settled close and early. The stage is in the far corner and standing room is mostly on two-thirds of the side, about a fifteen person shoulder-to-shoulder stretch. The other third is kept open, or keeps opening, for the back and forth path by the table cleaners getting around the bar and band members heading to the backstage full of equipment and sound controls guarded by a security monster the size of the opening. Between the backstage entrance and stage is one prime booth that is in shoulder tapping reach of the performance, as is the same on the other side with a bass box between, and both booths positioned underneath speakers hanging from the ceiling, making no spot closer.

(the stage set-up for acoustic night)

The triangle stage is wedged in the corner about a foot above the floor in front of a black backdrop. No crazy mechanical moving strobe lights, just a few spotlights holding bright and steady. Tonight was acoustic night with four stools in row behind microphones and a drum set on the platform behind that.

(Her Skeleton) photo by J.M.Hebron

Her Skeleton was up to the microphones first; matchbooks with one of their logos were scattered about the club as free fire starters or for smokers outside on the curb. Their set began around 10:40. They are normally a metal band, but tonight they were T-shirt and jeans with a singer, a drummer, and three acoustic guitars with foot pedals. This was the first time hearing them live in any form, and later found out that this was their first show ever. Her Skeleton acoustic set had a dark sky, grey cloud thunder rumble with asphalt dragging vocals. The acoustic guitars kept the performance at a constant high blood pulse with spiking drums, never turning into a fatal heart attack of overloading or exhausting slams and strings that tried to keep pace with their usual head bashing metal. The band kept seated throughout the set with vocals that wanted to stand and scream giving the performance an emotional caged animal impact, making the love anger of Her Skeleton felt deeper rather than exploding to fist pumping rage. Their pitchfork acoustic metal set lasted an entertaining half-hour; a great inaugural performance by Her Skeleton that will need to be seen again in full metal form.

(Chistopher Hall, The Dreaming) photo by J.M.Hebron

The Dreaming was up next. Fans started to gather close, preparing their recording devices and getting into a good camera angle position. The wonderful glowing front row of about fifteen young ladies, and one guy, had cell phone, photo camera, or video camera ready in record mode with LCD viewfinders square and bright, holding steady at chest level, waiting eager to capture the performance. It looked like an amateur media of dedicated fans. The bassist, Brent Ashley, had posted a bulletin to request the attending fans for "Cameras Needed" to record the show, which mentioned will possibly find its way into a type of video documentary DVD that will include other performances, rehearsal room footage, and their van road tour to Reno and Las Vegas. It was an exciting appeal and opportunity for all their fans to contribute.

Around 11:40, silver buttons were pushed and lenses started to capture The Dreaming: a Goth of five guys with straight tipped crow black hair, black T-shirt attire, and harnessing black instruments, for the most part. Christopher Hall, the vocalist of the disbanded group Stabbing Westward, takes the vocal reins once again. His intense jagged vocals and nail scraping to blood lyrics scream emotional pain like a razor slicing into exposed flesh from an open stitch on the heart. The acoustic accompaniment for the night were like electrical sparks in rain, fallen power lines that sizzled and snapped with life and dark energy that short circuited any lovey-dovey feelings in its range. Jinxx shrilled the black violin through a few songs, which felt like soothing torture, a scar solo tearing across the songs, like a cut of glass across bare skin to bleed truth to the vulnerability of beauty. The band covered Real Life's "Send Me An Angel," which most the crowd knew and sung along as they kept recording.

Christopher Hall's second coming as The Dreaming is a passionate resurrection with continued "Wither Blister Burn and Peel" aggression. The debut album, expected release in February of 2008, is fittingly entitled, "Etched in Blood."

After The Dreaming finished their set, the video shooting crowd lowered their cameras, powered down, tucked away their devices, and left. Others just left. A few patiently waited for the band to clear their gear from the stage and return to the floor for greets and photo memories, but they too, soon left when the band ultimately cleared out.

This clearing house effect after the main attraction seems to be a constant on the West Hollywood side of Sunset. It's a different crowd from the appreciate-all-music stay-to-the-end peoples on Silverlake's Sunset, east of the Hollywood Freeway. On the flashy Sunset side, the fans seem to be more of the pop crowd, where they pop-in for their band and then pop-out, something of a dedicated to one band fans; they come with the crowd and leave with the crowd. Maybe that is the reason why some venues give the band early start times, which they in turn relay to the fans, which when the time comes, the band actually begins playing much later in the night in order to possibly ruse the pop fans to watch the earlier band(s); such was the case at On The Rox on this night where The Dreaming had an expected start time at 10:30pm, but actually started over an hour later; the first band Her Skeleton started around 10:30with the place bustling.

(Benny Strange) photo by J.M.Hebron

By the time it was 12:40, the crowd was a few more than the four band members beginning on stage known as Benny Strange; the lack of people meant nothing in regards to the quality of the music. David Avram Brown casts hazy day vocals with an easy going guitar that breaks a bit of sunshine through the clouds as Anthony Enns contributes door chime melodies on keys, while bassist and drums turn the crack pavement feel into a mosaic splendor. They have a sound of The Shins mixed with Jack Johnson, but with Johnson's luau campfire tempo replaced with a Los Angeles sole stomping warm alley trash can fire bleakness. One of the late staying female listeners felt it was good pole dancing, slow and sensuous spiral to the ground listening, making fascinating use of alcohol and the dance prop available at On The Rox. This was the only band of the night that addressed the Southern California fires for which the show was partially contributing and they dedicated a song to the tragedy.

Benny Strange is somewhat in the category of alternative folk rock, a different band from Her Skeleton and The Dreaming, another plausible reason for the narrow focused and early to bed audience to dissipate. Their closing credit set ended a little after 1:10, which gave another fifty minutes until last call for alcohol, though the pole dancing lady was long done.

Back on the sidewalk after the show on the way to the $5 parking lot across the street, a bum asked for change that he swore he would use for food. Seventy-five cents and a cigarette were given to him that he took with thankful pleasure. Another fellow that looked like a homeless Santa Claus had a white cloth table show with a radio playing and a mice circus scurrying about on spin mills, climbing on this and that, and crapping black dots all over. He charged $2 if anybody wanted to photograph his sad image of a delusional Santa and his snake food elves. I tried to offer him a dollar for donation, but he would not accept anything under $2, so he was given nothing. It wouldn't be surprising to see him in a mall next month in December, getting his photo taken all day long with kids that are allowed by parents to sit on his lap; whether that is a good thought or bad is up to one's point-of-view, but for now, he was with his mice on the street.

That was the end of an eventful night at On The Rox. Not to mention the flaming car on the opposite side of the freeway at 2am in the morning and the patrol car that was zigzagging up and down the lanes slowing all oncoming traffic to a stop about a half mile further down the road. Los Angeles has its own version of tragic fires, like it has its own version of a river that runs through it, the L.A. River. It's a synonymous city, but not nearly the same as one would expect.

Miss Derringer @ El Rey Theatre

2007-11-03T23:44:00.000-07:00

(photo by J.M.Hebron)

Miss Derringer
El Rey Theatre
Los Angeles
11/3/07

Web: missderringer.com; myspace.com/missderringer

The Players: Liz McGrath, singer; Morgan Slade, guitar; Sylvain de Muizon, bass; Cody James, drums; Lightnin' Bill Woodcock, lead guitar.

Material: Los Angeles based Miss Derringer is fully loaded with two albums and a recent two song EP, all of which are ammunition tracks that improves with every new release. Their latest single, "Heartbreaks & Razorblades," blend shake-a-bop sounds with Goth satire that would make a mourner sway at a funeral; the lyrics are suicidal sad, but the rhythm is that of a glimmering beach sunrise. Miss Derringer has a sound that one can either hear as half-full of hope or half-empty with hopelessness, or both, depending on the perspective of the listener. This band could be categorized as 60's Motown revitalized with Rockabilly, somewhat like The Shirelles' "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" with a bit of country twang and endless bleeding.

Musicianship: Liz McGrath's vocals are dark and soft like hot tar, smiling sugar vocals with a knife in the gut lyrics. Supporting on guitars are Lightnin' Bill Woodcock slinging the dusty cowboy ride into the sunset and Morgan Slade delivering soft surf waves. Sylvain de Muizon on bass and Cody James on drums keep the tumbleweed tide from breaking into a catastrophe of contrasting rhythms. But Liz McGrath's vocals are the secret ingredient to blend the Los Angeles surf rock waters with the west coast cowboy desert oil.

Performance: Miss Derringer fills listeners with irony of death and hope, somewhat like their performance that buried their audience alive. Liz McGrath stood proper with elbows out and hands clasping, wearing a black and white striped imprisoned heart leotard with a red velvet vest and a petite doll hat to match, swinging her hips as she sung her songs of woe. Backing her vocals was the "Ghost Army" of black collar bandit cowboys with armbands expressing a tear crying nightingale, the lone night singer. Every few songs two ladies in red satin would flank McGrath and swim dance, making it seem that if hell had a beach, Miss Derringer, McGrath as the Goth Gidget, would be the perfect band to play endless on it, in the rising dusk, for all the fallen broken hearted suicide victims. Their performance adds another depth of sweet darkness to their grim upbeat music.

Summary: This band seems to have reinvented the oldies of the 60's, when the sound was fun and somewhat whimsical and yet delivered a humble message. Miss Derringer spills a broken heart and a bit of country into the mix with a splash of rock, making listeners twist and grieve, and want to shout their pain. Miss Derringer is not typical pop, but they'll definitely shoot to your heart if you give them a shot.

--Jeff Pegg

Moving Picture Show @ Silverlake Lounge

2007-10-18T23:44:00.000-07:00

Moving Picture Show
Silverlake Lounge
Silverlake
10/18/07

Contact: Benjie Gold, 323-640-8155; benjie@ciamanagement.net

Web: myspace.com/movingpictureshow; themovingpictureshow.com

The Players: Matt Kap, vocals, guitar; Amy Oliver, keyboard, vocals; Jeremy Nesse, bass, vocals; Scott Aguero, drums.

Material: Moving Picture Show's debut album "Frame by Frame" has a high school pop sound with lyrical imagery reminiscent of a movie soundtrack somewhere between "The Breakfast Club" and "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Their songs such as "Saturday Night" and "Leaving for Good" are filled with pent-up frustrated hormones that release into a spectacular array of heart pumping sounds and track star emotions. It's music that connects with the churning and burning inside that makes us want to stand-up and be individuals, breaking the school bells of monotony. MPS fall into a category between life in a college dorm and a flashback reel through our adolescent years.

Musicianship: Matt Kap leads the band with fist gripping vocals that deeply plead to understand life's confusion. There's suffering and antagonism in his voice that connects to the heart of the listener. Amy Oliver's supporting vocals adds a gentle touch along with her crazed keyboard skills that disco like Daft Punk. While Jeremy Nesse's vocals and bass unleash a rawness that could only be tamed by a crashing steady beat of Scott Aguero on drums. Together, the cast of Moving Picture Show create a gasoline burn of emotional adrenaline.

Performance: Tweet-boom-bash began Moving Picture Show as a marching band from outdoor entrance, through the parting crowd, to front and center. They dropped their band equipment one by one, got into position on stage, and blazed into their set. It was like an awesome half-time show with no need for Paul McCartney. Matt Kap's vocals pulled the crowd close as Amy Oliver's keys made their body dance. Jeremy Nesse added the "one, two, four" crack of spontaneity and bouncing bass while Scott Aguero went loose behind drums. No cover songs tonight, until their final song where they dipped into Rihanna's "Umbrella" for a bit and then mixed out to finish their finale. A pure energy performance. Now, if only there were fireworks!

Summary: Moving Picture Show is a box office hit in the making, an independent band with mainstream appeal. Their album and live performance reflect one another with nothing hidden or hindered. MPS is a delightful non-stop flicker frame of excitement and possibilities with the band's delightful personality making fans crave for sequels.

--Jeff Pegg

Kiss or Kill Club @ El Cid

2007-10-10T21:00:00.000-07:00

El Cid
4212 Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90029
Event: Kiss or Kill Club
Date: October 10, 2007
Day: Wednesday
(18+)

El Cid describes itself as "an authentic replica of a 16th century Spanish tavern." Now mix in a bit of Flamenco appreciation shown in the surrounding artwork and the $34.95 a plate dance show of the same sort during the day. Finally, add an evening of good local music and an attention to "boobies" and you'll end up with the atmosphere of Kiss or Kill Club every Wednesday in October, and continuing every Wednesday afterwards but without the constant sight of "boobies." But if you just like boobies, act now! Get there before the table side girls and female band members exposing their love for boobies are gone for good!

With all this action, there can only be one use for those folded dollar bills in hand: to donate it to breast cancer awareness month at El Cid. The "boobies" stickers, shirts, and portraits of female band members playing this month are all part of advertising to raise funds for the cause, a bit more effective than just handing out pink ribbons. This collection coincided with the music that brought the people in.

(welcome)

An evening of Kiss or Kill Club at El Cid starts around 9pm. The entry fee is $3 before 10pm and $5 afterwards. 21+ gets a Budweiser red wristband to purchase drinks. The beers are about $6 (no Corona available) and the light alcoholic mixed drinks start about $7. The food is the Tapas menu served 'til 11pm, sometimes later.

The exterior has a Spanish desert touch with wavy topped adobe like walls outlined in brick, a resemblance to a mission having an extended awning with the shield of El Cid over the entrance instead of a bell. Nearby, a nice El Cid Flamenco "Live Entertainment" sign towers on a pole with a flashing arrow pointing to the excitement below.

(enter at your own enjoyment)

There are no doors to enter, just the open passageway with another El Cid shield hanging upon rusted antique iron to welcome patrons. This leads to a decent down a brick stairway surrounded with decorative stucco and concrete flower beds, painted flower tile, a glass guitar overhead, cherub statues, and a painting on the wall with an angel serving king and queen. It feels like an old church tavern, if there were such a thing. At the bottom of the curving passage is a choice of going left or right. To the left is the staircase leading further down to the thick lumber double door archway entrance; to the right leads to the courtyard.

(stepping out to the courtyard)

Stepping out to the courtyard from the path is like appearing at the top of a ballroom staircase. One is above it all, looking over the crowd with steps leading down. Nobody looks, of course, but one can imagine for a moment that everybody stares at you anxious for you to greet them. Or if one feels like sitting on the royal throne, there is a smooth hard couch formed into the wall that one can sit and view the mingling citizens. But it is best to join the crowd.

The lower level of the courtyard is a small area with seating booths in the corner next to a fold-out table where two blonde girls explain breast cancer and breast casting to anybody who will listen more than look at their "I (heart) boobies" stretched across their desirables--you know, the goods on the table. An outside bar is across from them with a half circle wooden counter dabbed with stools. The historic feel is created with few candles, Virgin Mary statues receded in the structure, and Spanish red and green lights shinning on chalk like Catholic murals on beige walls that lead up to the night sky.

The higher level of the courtyard is a few steps up in the rear for a more private getaway. This area is nearly twice as large, but the lighting is low key and the five booths and two rows of table seating leaves very few places for standing. For a smoke and a calm reflective chat away from the chatter and music, this is the spot. A few couples here and there whispered over candlelight.

Stepping indoors from the courtyard seems like a whole different century. The interior of El Cid is a place where Conquistadors could have gathered and invited Cervantes for many nights of wild feasts that would inspire him with ideas of Don Quixote while falling in love with the dancing Dulcinea on stage.

Upon walking in through the opening next to the outside bar, one will notice the other half of the bar extending inside, completing the full circle of the counter. For a moment, thought the bartenders were twin sisters and might have a second chance. The counter is beautiful flowered tile with wooden racks of glasses hanging low overhead. No seats. Beyond the bar and heading straight past a dead brick fireplace is a pathway that leads to the front lumber door mentioned earlier. It's a lobby full of framed black and white photos of famous forgotten celebrities from the silver screen age and a cabinet full of Flamenco trinkets and dolls. Beyond this and around the corner is another small half-circle bar. Stools space around the tile counter like light bulbs around a vanity mirror, with the bartender in the center being able to serve drinks at one end and turn around to hand a drink to the other end. An iron candle chandelier and other antique metal items hang or are displayed in showcase in this cavernous corridor. Here, a few couples' tables next to framed nearly life-size Flamenco drawings are an intimate spot removed from the view of the crowd and sound, though the seating is in the long plaster and brick corridor stretch that leads to restrooms around the bend behind the stage where the bands stash their gear and get hype before the show. For a more secluded setting, there is a narrow staircase across from the bar that leads to three tables on the second level; a low ceiling cram aisle fit that feels like a nook in the attic with a nice balcony view of the stage.

The floor gathering area is the place to be with curtain entrances on each side next to the bars, basically you have to pass the bar to get there, so might as well grab a drink as they expect you would. In the rear, below the shields and swords and the balcony seating, are high back lounge booths with backs to the lobby. Lined along the brick and mortar sidewalls are table seating, about four on each side. More life-size portraits of Flamenco dancers adorn the walls next to the nostalgic Spain inspired setting. One doesn't really get lost in the antique atmosphere because it is being filled with DJ cPod's contemporary music blasting from massive speakers mounted in the upper corners. Sound is good, a slight muddle and not a lot of bass, but clear and distinct without high pitched shrills or echoes. The standing room floor is large, though people still spill into the spaces between the side tables when Host MC Rob Z took to stage under amber spotlights shinning on a shingle roof backdrop.

(Ginger Britt & The Mighty) photo by J.M.Hebron

Ginger Britt & The Mighty started the live music for the evening shortly before 10pm. Ginger Britt was a tight little package with blue jeans, a gold frazzle halter top, and a red head of wildness. The Mighty fills her country punk vocals with fast beat instrumental support. Her recorded material does not vibe the punk rock two-step hoedown feel that the live harmonica and fiddle supported performance emanates, but both do have a heavy burned emotional vocal breach that will horse kick any bad attitude. Their set, including a southern spiked Jefferson Airplane and Wolfmother cover, lasted 'til nearly 10:30.

(Beatmo)

Beatmo, the resident band for the month, took to the stage at 10:45, quick and fast, all seven of them. They're a female pop fronted group having a Latin big band sounds from trumpets, bongos, and an accordion mixed with electronic 80's keyboards and a Munsters organ ride through the shadows. Big band meets contemporary pop in a suicidal high speed colliding game of Chicken, leaving a chatter skull with claw feet, which is their current logo. "Treasure Hunt" is their most catchy song with twinkling guitars, cloud rising keys, and high sailing lyrics that create a picture of a pirate ship flying through the blue sky sea in search of hidden hopes. Beatmo held the big beat for thirty minutes.

After they cleared their equipment, the curtains were drawn shut the only time for the evening. It was obvious something massive was being prepared behind the concealing red felt. Only the rumbling of equipment was heard, like thunder in the clouds of an impending storm. The crowd started to gather again, larger and larger. Soon, real soon, something was going to ignite.

Right at the instant when the atmosphere was a moment from calm, The Automatic Music Explosion burst forth from the stage, flailing the curtains apart. It was approximately 11:52 P.M. Pacific Standard Time when the five fronted rainbow attack took place. There was little warning, but the crowd was prepared with clenched fists pounding the air. The band struck hard. Front man Matt, dressed in anarchy embracing black and bald, set it off with his goatee fuse and jet black guitar; the hot six-foot Jodie, supporting vocals, streaked red, blue, and Detroit, while armed to the teeth with screams, billboards, a tambourine, and a shakin' body that'll make any cheerleader cower in her mists; the Mohawk crazed Jeff on bass had mad red pants, yellow suspenders, and a hanging white tie that wasn't about to surrender at any cost; to his left, the heavy metal Vietnam hippie looking Chris in partial uniform and bling chains wielded his Excalibur glaring guitar for action; but in the back was Max in pinstripe purple with British blonde Beatles hair wishing only to slam his drums most fashionably.

(The Automatic Music Explosion)

The AME blasted the audience with sugar rock charged with heavy metal shrapnel. Matt's vocals give a dirty punk edge that stabs at every beat while Jodie's Bubble Yum bop adds a sweet shake tambourine touch. She's also the crowd instigator launching posters for "Fight!", "Clap Your Hands", and "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah", making it fun and easy to add your own vocals to the mix. Jeff on bass and Chris leading guitar, head banging throughout the set, until suddenly Chris steps center stage and raises to the heavens his glistening rhinestone embellished instrument and rips a praising death metal solo. Never knew what to expect next. Matt humped a Marshall amp with a guitar while titillating titty knobs for a moaning feedback solo; then later jumped to a table and thrashed. The band was like five human fireworks going off in random succession. Candy and balloons showered the audience being tossed and popped while the music continued to play. Near the end of their thirty minute set a heart felt toast was made by all the band members, raising drinks with the crowd for special thanks. It felt like an Auld Lang Syne New Year's night. The Crayola mushroom cloud of sight and sound had engulfed the audience like a drug that made everybody feel young again, the pubescent years when it was free and easy to shout with the band without a few drinks—an automatic party explosion. Not that everybody knew each other, but the howling and fist pumping comradery felt like everybody were friends and understood the moment.

The curtains never closed as the band said their farewells and left the stage empty and buzzing electric. The host soon silenced the sound and brought things back to reality with breast cancer awareness.

At around 12:30, the expected Bang Sugar Bang was replaced by Movement of the Sun. The crowd had fizzled, maybe because it was late, or because of the unexpected switch of the bands, but for those that didn't stay to watch, they'll be seeking to hear this band sooner or later, realizing what they missed. Movement of The Sun sounds of 60's type folk rock with a trace of Dylan-esque in the vocal chords and political leaning lyrics. Yes, Victor, the lead singer has that smooth quirk voice of humbleness with a calm underlining disappointment of society. Their rhythm is in tune with slow roll rock with quick and easy guitar riffs that slides into the chorus. A sound that flows with a steady setting sun on the horizon that slaps the sky red while leaving sunspots on the listener's mind long after they have finished their set. The few recordings that they have do not compare to hearing them perform live for thirty minutes.

(Movement Of The Sun)

When it was time to leave the $5 valet attendant was no longer out front. No worries, for free parking was found all around beforehand. El Cid is on Sunset, not on the busy strip, rather in the Silverlake area where the clubs are slightly spaced and where the shops and most restaurants are closed, leaving abundant street and residential spots available, at least on this side of town. If you find a spot across from El Cid that looks too good to be true, take it, it's likely okay, unless you're in the red.

And that was the evening, made a u-turn and cruised back down Sunset to get to the freeway, passing fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars gathering towards a gated shop window that had been busted through with an SL Mercedes Benz. "Don't drink and drive"—another awareness moment for the night.

*(UPDATE: December 12, 2007)*

Nico Vega @ La Cita

2007-10-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

La Cita
336 S. Hill St.
Los Angeles, CA 90013

Day: Tuesday
Date: October 2, 2007
Event: Nico Vega video shoot

Calling all non-union extras for a video shoot in downtown Los Angeles. This is an unpaid gig and requires no release form to be signed. If you're a Nico Vega fan and want to be in their music video, then this is the casting call for you. Come on down to the location shoot at La Cita. Bring fist pumping excitement, head banging energy, and a crazy chicken hat if you got one. No experience or ID required.

That was sort of the invitation offered to fans and friends of Nico Vega. This was their shoot and EP release celebration rolled into a music video. The storyboard was a live band performance in a small bar packed with lively fans. Everyone's character motivation was to get wild. It was a Tuesday night when the cameras rolled. But there was a build-up before this climax and it started with getting dumped off the freeway into the armpit of downtown around 9:30pm. That is where this story fades in. And…Action!

A white SUV circles the decomposing city maneuvering through the maze of one-way streets until reaching the destination on 3rd, then passing the location to find suitable parking. There is an adjacent parking lot exactly next to the bar for $5 if you can convince the attendant that you're going to Club Fantasy. Across from that entrance is $3 parking if you can find an attendant to pay. On the street, 'Loading Zone Only' is available for the price of a parking ticket and possible tow. Dark curbs the color of dried blood are also not a pleasing option. There was one free meter parking spot available on 5th street a few blocks down, which became perfect for a stroll through the city slum. (For subway support, there's the Metro Red Line stop at Pershing Square, a parking lot distance from the bar. Very close, but stops running a little after midnight.)

While locking up the ride, forgotten shadows pass along the sidewalk pushing carts or dragging tar blankets. Let them and the odor dissipate peacefully before opening the door. Light a cigarette to ward off other possible unsuspecting foul fumes. The air is oxygen but is barely breathable. There are bumps on the sidewalk; make sure not to accidentally strike them awake. Don't worry about the rats and roaches; they will scurry down sewers or into trash cans upon first sight. Do concern about the restless victim of misfortune gathering his home closer in an effort to keep warm. He sees the approaching and slows his packing, attempting to lock his drooping eyes to induce a conversation. It works. He asks for change and gets declined, then offers to buy a cigarette, just one cigarette, please for twenty-five cents. The morbid pity is felt and a free cigarette is handed his way. Little does the giver know that the cigarette is the price of safe passage through his territory. There is little reflection upon this before reaching the safe haven lights of La Cita.

And the lights blaze bright in yellow and 'La Cita' red lettering, double signs large and clear flanking the red half-umbrella above the entrance of a warn white tile and ceramic exterior. On the side of the building facing the Club Fantasy parking lot is a giant neon red buzzing 'La Cita' saluted with Mexican flags at both ends. This place has more signs than McDonald's. All it needs is a sign on a pole out front with a phrase underneath reading "Billions and Billions Cervezas Served". You can't miss it, unless you're gazing at the historic Angels Flight that is directly across the street. The relaxed security leaning on a tree near the entrance simply eyeballs the people walking through the wide-open door, pushing his clicker as each one enters.

Inside La Cita is Tijuana at its finest, like stepping into the liver of Mexico consumed in a deep red bile secreting glow. Strands of colorful sparkling lights trace around the borders giving off a feeling of Cinco De Mayo or Christmas in Mexico. It's an inviting and festive atmosphere, an escape from the heart of L.A.

(inside bar)

The serving bar is a long stretch of pleasure under rows of various types of drinking glasses that hang above like crystal ornaments. A bar wall mirror expanding end to end reflects three levels of alcohol delights for the picking. Two black clad female bartenders deliver it with few words, popping Heineken tops for $4. The ledge is mainly a leaning edge with a few square barstools having old cushions that sink through the frame. The path is narrow with a divider directly in front that separates this area from the dance floor, keeping Rumba shakers from hip checking the well watered wall flowers. The divider has a counter for the flowers to sit drinks and a gaze through a prison of wooden posts, or converse with those resting on the bar creating a ceremonial path for those walking down the aisle.

(lounging)

Seating area is scattered and abundant. A single booth corner is wedged between the end of the bar and the front door. Button tufted crimson cushions, brass rope handles, and hanging lanterns decorate between wall mirrors and a candles on tables, creating a sedately mood for watching the comings and going at the entrance. In the opposite corner behind the door is the soundboard and DJ setup next to the tile half of the dance floor. Attached to surrounding sections of wall are more mirrors, brass rope, and long bench seats with assorted tables and chairs that can be bunched or separated depending on party size. Most of the seating is around the open floor, but there is a separate seating section in the back to get away from eye level behinds. The trouble is finding a seat with a visible view of the stage.

(stage)

Main stage and dance floor is the area directly in front of the bar opposite the divider. This was the video set. The actual non tile portion of the floor is a little area to cram a lot of people to make it seem like a tight crowd, perfect for the shoot. The stage is a miniature arena with a bull fight backdrop and a knee high barricade with that ever present brass rope trim and a ceiling handle for swinging singers. A gold drum set with spear microphones overhead took up a third of the stage. There were no multicolored spotlights this evening. All lights were up and blistering on the set.

(Nico Vega)

Around 10:30, three hand-held high definition cameras and multiple grips with Fresnel beams converged on the drummer and guitarist playing a peaking instrumental introduction. Out of nowhere the crowd separates as the female lead singer, Aja, cuts to the stage wearing a seductive black body stocking over revealing lingerie; an outfit likely inspired by Club Fantasy. The three piece Nico Vega sound is its own turn-on as well. One can listen to them while prying the lid from a can of paint and splattering a room yellow. No bass chords to keep them grounded. Fast drums, high pitched guitar riffs, and raspy vocals start easy and soft until bursting into outrage. Aja has a voice with a lot of wow and flutter, spiking peaks at any moment, then staying redline until the valley end. Nico Vega's "Gravity" track would be a perfect soundtrack for a winding top down arms out drive up the sunny mountainside that suddenly swerves out-of-control off a cliff into a forest crackling tumble that comes to rest near a trickling stream. Tonight Aja went over the railing into a forest of screaming fans to belt her lyrics, getting lost in a pit of lights, cameras, and hurdling feet. That became the final take. Cut and print! (or digitize).

There were a few retakes, stopping mid song because of buzzing microphone feed back or start miscues. For the most part, there were no falling props, blown bulbs, or 'wardrobe malfunctions'. It was a good hot set lasting a little under an hour.

What would likely be left on the cutting room floor or outtake reel would be the men's restroom scene. Picture two typical toilet stalls next to a white bath tub mounted a little lower than crotch high. Pissing in the shower is one thing, but pissing in a community tub can be bothersome, especially if one does not know its capacity and crams in another tap for release. Good thing there was no fluid overflow or people slipping in. Nasty. Then only one sink in the corner to wash the hands next to a dirty machine that will give you a blow dry. But cleanliness is futile for the doorknob to exit is covered in grime, greasing every knob turning hand. The experience will be remembered one way or another and does not need to be played out on screen.

(artery to El Patio)

The restrooms are in the red tile covered artery that leads to 'El Patio'. A few photograph and filming moments momentarily clogged this area before the musical act. Maybe it will be part of the director's cut or special features. El Patio is a festive area with more than ashtrays and seats under a striped two tone circus tent with a full bar resembling a wooden lemonade stand for adults. On one side is a small enclosed tile stage, maybe for announcements and congratulatory ceremonies, but not big enough for a band, but maybe a second DJ or drum solo. In the middle of the tent is a square dance rink under cherry bubble lanterns; a space just large enough for a pair of Flamenco dancers, or a dwarf wrestling match, picture a small wrestling ring with poles instead of ropes with an opening on two opposite sides. The surrounding audience have a choice of watching in a couple's table booth, a four-seater oval booth for the slightly larger gathering, or sit back on the cushioned bench that extends around the far walls separated into sections by a row of equal spaced tables and chairs. A few spots were special with tall candle jars burning the Virgin Mary, a perfect height for a slight lean to have Her flame light a cigarette. There's enough room in El Patio to have a Mexican family party with a piñata smack down in the middle. No offence. Actually, somebody was having a birthday party in the back corner at the time, not sure if it was any connection to Nico Vega.

The wrap party continued well into the night. Aja was kind and took cheek to cheek pictures with anybody that asked, possibly in preps for Nico Vega's video premiere. Everything went smooth and well for a shoot. No long waits before shooting. No stopping in the middle of the shoot then waiting around forever for the shoot to resume. No standing around in the extra's holding area. Tonight was nothing of the sort with La Cita having seating options for nearly any size gathering, two bars to intoxicate on the job, and a DJ plugged into somebody's Nano sitting on the ones and twos. Of course, the downside was that there was no catered food. But there is a taco stand next door that is open 'til 2.

Nico Vega - Be Giving
music video

Mather Louth @ Taix 321 Lounge

2007-09-20T21:30:00.000-07:00

Taix 321 Lounge
(pronounced 'tex')
1911 Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90026
No Cover Ever.
21+

Date: September 20, 2007
Day: Thursday

Prologue

The thought began in circa 1870. A family of bakers and sheepherders and possibly a black sheep Ricola horn blower were living in the frigid French Alps. Before the year was over, the family immigrated to the new land of Los Angeles. In 1912, the father opened a French hotel in downtown; a magnificent place that was reminiscent of an inn they remembered from their homeland, but without the squeaky wooden sign. Years later, the son added a bistro. The Field of Gold hotel became a French classic in Los Angeles. But nostalgia wouldn't last. The great hotel became a parking lot; a similar fate likely occurred to the French inn in their homeland being destroyed by one of the World Wars. Then in 1962, the grandson decided to build a similar place near Echo Park. The building was a slightly updated replica of the original: a homely cottage style structure with a French restaurant, elegant banquet rooms, a wall to wall wine room, and a lounge bar with a red brick fireplace. The hallways were filled with photographs of developing Los Angeles in the 1920's, the family hotel being one of them, a remembrance to their start in America. One main difference to this modern 60's Alpine inn was that there was no place to sleep, no lodging. Over forty years later to this day, the dwelling never altered, never changed. Inside the Taix, time stood still.

That is the half-baked origin of Taix Restaurant, a strung-out thought that crossed the mind while absorbing the history and ambience and an early seat at the 321 Lounge within.

Left Los Angeles behind around 10pm on a Thursday evening. The last thought before exiting out of the bleak night was to get $2.50 valet parking if there wasn't any street parking available, a constant chore for life in the crowded. Pulled open the doors to Taix and stepped inside. It felt like a shelter, a cottage of yore, far removed from the aches and stenches of the city, a deep inhale of smooth fresh air away from the smothering smog.

Taix 'Village':

Think novelty interior, like stepping into an old French village. The entrance opens to a corridor, a cobble stone alley, which leads in different directions. To the immediate left is a wooden engraved sign above a door reading: Wine Room. A place to gargle wines it appears. Further along the cottage façade is one path that leads to restrooms and banquet rooms, nothing much. In the far rear around the corner to the right is a park bench below a bed of plastic flowers and lights. Here, a host waits, as though outside, to seat patrons for an evening of French cuisine in the restaurant beyond the vinyl shrubs and miniature Eiffel Tower. Across the way is a glass window with a view into a wine cellar. This place feels like a French wine and dine tourist attraction. Food service is until 9:30. (website has menu.) As for the 321 Lounge, it is the tavern to the right with the black lantern and multicolored window-pane, just a few steps from the time warp from outside. There's also a rear entrance across from the benches next to the restaurant. Though the lounge is simply a separate bar and dinning area in the restaurant lobby, the exterior resembles a corner pub in a foreign town.

Taix 321 Lounge:

(welcome)

Wine bottles stacked in cubes behind the bar set the sophisticated tone; the bar stretches across the side of the room with about a dozen stools; it's a full bar, but most importantly it's a wine bar. Didn't see the bar tender pluck any bottles to corkscrew, but if you know wines, they'll likely serve you up right and something different all night. The regular beer is a cheap $4.50; a stiff mix drink will cost about $5. Everything is served in a glass. It's a classy place with laid back attitude, like lounging in casuals in a rich uncle's den. Turquoise and lavender streaks over floral wallpaper, continuing onto the fabric of the bench and chair seating tables that extends the length of the wall opposite the bar, and swirling onto the carpet in a mingled maze. On the wall hangs uncle's favorite duck hunting prints. No classic black and white rock photography here. Everything is oddly colorful, but is barely noticeable in the lights dim glow. In the middle floor area there are circle tables each with four comfortable rolling armchairs to sink into. Candles beacon at every location, like a sea of floating flickers in the dark. It's all first come, first serve. No cover charge or minimum per person purchase to lounge. If you get there before 9:30, the flat-screens at the bar and behind the stage will likely be playing the local sporting games. The Keno screen stays on through the night. After 9:30, the sports go dark and the DJ starts up a music history list expanding from rap music to Bob Dylan.

(wine bar)

Soon, the fireplace stage slowly takes form. It's a fireplace stage because the backdrop is a brick fireplace from floor to ceiling and out through the chimney. No fires, of course. The stage is on the carpet floor, no higher, no lower. Two speakers used as a drink counter for the bands connect to the vocal microphones and monitors that separate the stage from the audience. Bands bring their own amps for electric guitars. Drums, brass, and wood instruments play natural. Together everything works perfect. Had a seat in front of the stage speakers and everything sounded superb. The spotlights were bright and deep colored radiant mounted on the ceiling aiming down from above or at an angle. This stage is a clean simple setup that doesn't seem cramped, forced, or overwhelming for such a small area. All shows start at 10:30.

Mather Louth @ 10:30

(Mather Louth)

Lights shine sultry on red lips spreading to a chrome polished microphone. What comes forth is an eerie southern breeze floating off a murky backwater bayou. David Meadow on drums pattering calm, Randall Keith on upright bass thumping lull, Jon Nilsen on sax blowing it smooth, and Mather on a blues guitar strums the strings to her glimmering soul while exhaling vocals from the shadowy depths of her heart. It's a mystical New Orleans sound from L.A. Mather dressed in southern belle Goth; the Goth being a slim midnight felt outfit with frills dangling from a short thick skirt with charcoal sheer stockings and black boot heels; the southern belle being her pale blush beautiful face with glittering peacock eyes and plum wine hair tied up in a red bouquet of flowers and feathers. She looked like a blossoming red rose with feather foliage penetrating through the darkness. In the essence of blues, Mather Louth vibes a depressingly hopeful feel in her music, like a steady trudge through thick oily mud with optimism to reach the sparkle in the distance. The air becomes thick with her rough ominous vocals that soak listeners completely. It's not a miserable 'I hate life' attitude, but rather a rhythmic release of despair and tiny possibilities. Your troubles are momentarily forgotten when Mather Louth absorbs you into her bourbon sipping blues, which lasted forty-five minutes.

Had a moment to speak to Mather after her set and she revealed a few interesting thoughts about herself and the lounge. She spoke of Mason, the lounge booking manager, with nothing but praise. The 321 Lounge is a nurturing place for the true artist and Mason chooses performers that are compelling and unique from the popular norm. He puts the artist's interests first with an ear for the heart and eyes to the soul. L'art pour l'art (Art for art's sake), not commercial appeal, though it can be. You won't find the next big band at 321 Lounge, but you will hear music that everyone can enjoy, a social and inviting music scene for all generations. Give it a chance. As for Mather, she doesn't boast much about herself except for the overwhelming struggles of being a solo independent artist. She does every bit of work herself, from writing the music, to creating the sound, to forming the band, to booking a venue, to making the flyers, to advertising her music to get people to listen and come to her show, to doing a million other things to share her music with the public. Mather wasn't that specific, but a subtle woe in her voice implied so. It was at this moment when there came a desire to further pick her mind with probing questions to try to understand why she stretches herself thin to get people to listen. But the answer is all in her music. And her flyer led me to it. Suddenly I felt like an idiot and forgot to thank her. "Thank you."

The Tulsa Skull Swingers @ 11:55

(The Tulsa Skull Swingers)

Can you say Mardi Gras? That's exactly what they are. A near seven foot tall skeleton lead singer and guitar in gray coveralls and a black top hat, a Dia De Los Muertos half-eaten sidekick on backup guitar, an oversized blonde to bald baby in penguin pajamas on bass guitar, a dead face mask on drums, flanked by twin dancing Go-Go Ghouls. A death parade that brings the audience alive. The Tulsa Skull Swingers has a rockabilly surf sound with gimmicky "pow-wow" lyrics drenched in a tidal wave to hell rhythm. Picture a full moon over a turbulent sea of heavy undulating bass chords, rising guitar peaks, and splashing drums. Between each song, the band would stop, tell dumb jokes with such acoustic ingenious that it became funny, tell a bad joke, take a silent swig, and start up again. They're a b-movie horror musical comedy. During one song, they strung donuts on a string and raised them high for a contest. If any audience member could eat the entire donut without their hands he or she would get a Free drink of choice; an embarrassing act for the devil's amusement that actually claimed a winner. But a more innocent game than trying to win a necklace of colored plastic beads. Never a dull moment would be too cliché for them. The Tulsa Skull Swingers are a constant unexpected oddity of amusement. They are The Addams Family of music. Their celebration for the macabre lasted for an hour, then they disappeared one at a time until only the drummer was left confused and folding his arms, the final punch line.

(The Go-Go Ghouls)

It was definitely an eventful evening at the French lounge. Came to see Mather Louth, stayed for the surprising act of The Tulsa Skull Swingers, drank a few drinks in my soft armchair, and escaped the hectic world for a few hours. A mind resort. The place is an open-minded stone's throw distance from The Echo. Actually, The Echo website mentions this place for valet parking to their shows. It's all about community it seems.

Taix 321 Lounge is a scene where the grey cracked pavement of Los Angeles has yet to intrude. A place where commercialism cash appeal is left at the door for the valet to park. A feeling of a hideaway wine cellar lounge where life slows to appreciate the delicate; a perfect climate to ferment the grapes of life into something greater, an artistic expression of it.

The Ghost Lullaby @ Surf City Saloon

2007-09-07T21:30:00.000-07:00

The Ghost Lullaby “Button Eyes”

The Ghost Lullaby is a recently added Artists selection found on my iPod between Gene Vincent and Giant Drag. "Button Eyes" is the name of their new album. As the first song "dirty" begins to play through the earphones, a second look at the music player is required, thinking that it automatically shuffled to a Smashing Pumpkins song instead: hollow pop-pop drums and a dull razor guitar begins to screech. But soon, Perrin Newell, one of the two lead singers of The Ghost Lullaby, breaks into lyrical prose with scratchy, dirty, audio vocals, like listening through a drive-thru speaker. It's a raw chewing on nuts and bolts in the stomach feeling that is worthy to be The Ghost Lullaby's first music video.

When the image of industrial rain stops pouring through the first track, Valerie Aiello, the female lead, slows life down in the following song "All was Lost"; her comforting vocals, reminiscent of Sixpence None the Richer, play over an acoustic guitar, patting drums, and an easing electric squeal that unites into an alternative lullaby fitting to the band's name.

Track three might be So Alive, a Love And Rockets monotone vocal drag that builds into a raging and instrumental outburst in "Just Because". The homage of similarities continue through the grunge chaos of "delicate ways", or a Radiohead "texture" with female vocals, to a somber heart dripping Mazzy Star feel in "Clocks". Not sure if it is the intention of this diversified album, but it works well to tribute alternative genre without getting repetitive or dull, with each song having an unexpected twist to a familiar sound. The album ends with an instrumental fitting to be heard over end credits of an experimental David Lynch film.

The Ghost Lullaby's new album "Button Eyes" contains a unique blend of their own supernatural aura with the quality spirit of well known alternative rock contributors of the past few decades—different soul, same heart. You can either purchase the album directly from them by mail or at their next gig near you; the later is preferred. The Ghost Lullaby album that is currently playing on my iPod was picked-up at their recent performance at Surf City Saloon.

Surf City Saloon
18528 Beach Blvd.
Huntington Beach, CA 92648
714.963.7744

Day: Friday
Date: September 7, 2007
Ages: 21+

The address is correct. Huntington Beach was the city of choice this evening. It was the opportunity to see and possibly meet The Ghost Lullaby that caused the road trip out of regular jurisdiction. There were only two show dates on their schedule at the time and the second show date was already booked with other obligations. The only choice was to go to the beach city or miss them completely. Sure, they just released their album and will likely be touring, but why prolong the desire to see them?

Got off the 405 freeway and headed west down Beach Blvd. It was a cool evening with very little city traffic, fast enough to keep the speedometer at thirty-five while in search of this saloon. Of course, the bar wasn't exactly on this street, rather it turned out to be in an L-plaza with one end of the lot opening to Beach Blvd. A tiki style restaurant on the corner was blazing a bonfire and looked like a candidate to be the place; so made a U-turn, passed the fire, realized it wasn't the place, and turned onto the cross street, Ellis Street, to make another U-turn. Decided to pull into the dark plaza behind the restaurant and pull back out on Beach Blvd, but there it was, a little lit sign in the middle of the plaza reading "Surf City Saloon". Parked the car in the lot and that was that--a lot of Free parking. It was around 8:30pm.

The exterior is not much more than neon beer glowing in the window under a plaza marquee advertising pool tables and live bands every Friday and Saturday. A guy sits at a foldout table next to the door, checks IDs, tells the cover charge is $5, and stamps the hand with a smile; there is a casual big guy standing near him, but said nothing. Hanging on the wall behind the big guy is a small showcase with upcoming events, but didn't feel comfortable sneaking around his back for a closer look. So, got the hand marked and opened the way into the saloon.

(bar)

No big surprises inside. This place does not attempt to be more than it is: a bar with a stage. On one side is the bar with two very attentive lady bartenders and multiple television screens emanating athletes under an American flag painted on the ceiling. Transfixed drinkers sit on a row of stools below a strand of plastic team flags that designate this place as a sports bar; not to mention the Dodgers and Angels baseball games playing on separate screens with the Dodgers game audio pumping through speakers in the four corners of the saloon, next to a few surfboards hanging here and there, next to more neon alcohol suggestions…

(entertainment)

Other fun and games: Like any bar, there is often a few other bits of entertainment. Surf City Saloon is no exception: how about a row of pinball and video games with a snack machine on the end; or the usual electronic dart board; or television lottery every few minutes; or if you want music before the bands, there's a digital music box; and if you want Free, there are three pool tables for the playing, no quarters required. How's all that for adult entertainment and excitement? Yeah, this is the typical bar portion, including the closet bathroom with a funk that trails down the short hall in the back.

In the middle are the bar stool tables where the fans started to gather and find their seats facing the stage. And what a stage it is: about six inches off the ground with black carpet, a black curtain back drop with shimmering gold "Surf City Saloon" bannered from end to end, a few tiny green halogen lights scattered on a thin bent railing hanging by wires from the ceiling, and two tall seven foot speakers holding ground at the end corners—it's a stage corny enough to be in a cool cheap music video.

(setting the stage)

As The Ghost Lullaby set-up their equipment, the pool tables were cleared and covered for the night, removing any possible ball breaking distractions. The ceiling fans were still spinning strong and bright. After the band finished with their gear, Valerie Aiello, one of the lead vocalist and guitarist, started to pass out business cards to promote the band and new album. And that was how the interesting conversation with The Ghost Lullaby started.

She handed me one of the little cards and I took a look at it: on one side was a promo for the new "Button Eyes" album and on the reverse were individual portraits of the four band members. It was a short shock when taking a glance at her picture on the card and then looking up at her, like checking her ID to make sure the person standing in front of me was really this band member on the card. It was! Valerie introduced herself, and trying not to choke on the excitement I introduced myself and my friend. She was pleased to hear that we were there to shoot photos. In an instant, there seemed to be a mutual enthusiasm rushing through the three of us. The conversation stayed friendly as she spoke about the new "dirty" music video she recently finished shooting with the band and that she directed the project as well (which is a very cool B&W rock noir video with a dark alley crooked cop feel); also she mentioned an upcoming return visit to her home state of Texas to shoot a video for another band; and that she's a graphics designer that creates album covers as well. Valerie Aiello is a musician in love with the whole music scene and it clearly showed.

The rest of the band started to come by one after the next. First it was the tall, bald and beefy drummer, Sam DiGiovanni, wearing a tank top looking like he could be Aiello's bodyguard; he smiled as Valerie introduced him, making the thought of getting pulled outside for a beating disappear. DiGiovanni mentioned that he's from the valley and that it was a trip to the Surf City Saloon. But both of them were happy to be here because they enjoyed the eased atmosphere of being out of Los Angeles. This was a relax at the beach. They mentioned a few L.A. places that they enjoyed playing, such as Bar 107 and Safari Sam's. With the mention of Safari Sam's, we both agreed that they were one of the best venues in town (it was just the day before that Safari Sam's was hit for a second a review, and if you haven't read already, everything went perfect!) Never been to Bar 107, though it appears they mainly host DJs now, but if a band does play there, it's on! The bulging biceps drummer told the story about the time when they played at Bar 107 and was met at the entrance by an intimidating gorilla sized bouncer. The bouncer seemed threatening until he politely asked the band if there was anything he could get them for the evening. How funny, I was thinking the same way about him before his introduction.

By now most of us had a nice sized beer in hand. (Another good thing about driving out of the city is getting cheaper beer: $4.5 for a pint; $6 for a 24oz; $8 for a 42oz!) As we drank and laughed at stories, Perrin Newell stopped for a hello. He seemed focused on the performance at hand. It was the same with the bassist, Oliver Newell, when asked on his whereabouts. His usual routine is to stroll around the place to get the good vibe juices flowing. Oliver came up and made the last introduction to complete the band. Then, with the dim of the ceiling fans, it was showtime.

(Valerie Aiello, vocals & guitar)

(Perrin Newell, vocals & guitar)

(Oliver Newell, bass)

(Sam DiGiovanni, drums)

The Ghost Lullaby took the stage at 9:30. Hollow pop-pop drums, and then a dull razor guitar began to screech. As in the album, Valerie & Perrin switched on vocals. Valerie swapped between singing and ripping guitar to her knees. The vibrant vigor of the band was sync with the energy explosive music. It was a lucky night for the fans as the next band was a no show, causing The Ghost Lullaby to perform for almost an hour! And they were prepared, jamming through nearly the whole 'Button Eyes' album. It was a good night, definitely worth the trip this far to see them, no question about it.

As for the sound system set-up: the vocals were a little rough but loud through house speakers with a few drop-off difficulties; the drums played acoustic and pulverizing; and the guitars were cranking through the equipment that the band brought with no additional amplification or level adjustment from the house. Together it worked out well, harsh and raw with nothing getting lost or drowning out.

After the set was over, a few handshakes and praises were given as they cleared their gear from the stage. Suddenly, that strange vibe hit, you know that awkward mesmerizing feeling that separates the fans from talking to the bands even though they are hanging in the same area. Or maybe it was a sad feeling to see their performance end, having to say good-bye, and knowing that the other bands wouldn't amount to the same. Whatever it was, it was a good time to pick-up their album and call it a night, thus ending the brief encounter with The Ghost Lullaby.

The Dollyrots + 3 @ Safari Sam’s

2007-09-06T19:00:00.000-07:00

***Safari Sam’s permanently closed its doors October 2008***

Safari Sam's
5214 W. Sunset Blvd.
Hollywood, CA 90027

(All Ages, unless noted)

Day: Thursday
Date: September 6, 2007

For every great movie, there always has to be a sequel and/or prequel. For every great band, there always has to be a reunion tour and/or greatest hits album. For every great venue, there always has to be a return visit and/or multiple return visits. Getting more of a great thing is always great. Of course, these are not absolutes, though often they are, but you get the point when saying that Safari Sam's was a must on the return visit and/or possible multiple returns visits.

The first visit to Safari Sam's was enticed by the desire to see Monsters Are Waiting and 8mm, two local bands with female lead vocalists. Tonight was without the Camel Cigarette clutter and one better: the line-up was three local bands with female front runners--an all-nighter of girl power music. A dude punk band from Mississippi was supposed to break up the flow of estrogen, but they couldn't get it up to make set time.

(entrance, w/The Dollyrots hanging out)

This evening started with doors opening at 7pm: Free for all ages until 9pm, then afterwards: $8. If you call the venue on the day of the event, a recording will give you additional information. Advanced tickets were available on their website with an additional $2 convenience charge per ticket plus a $2 processing fee added to the total. Usually, the show doesn't sell out, so get there early and get in for Free or pay at the door to save from the excess fees. The only possible reason for purchasing early tickets is for Reserved Seating in the raised dinning area encaged next to the stage; the tickets cost was $23 plus the charges, but $15 is towards non-refundable meal credit, making it back to an $8 ticket. There are other unreserved tables along the edges of the floor area and on the second level next to the railing; food service until midnight.

(second level dinning or lounging)

Got there around 8:30; got close convenient parking for Free; got in for Free; got a Heineken for $6.50. A bar lined with stools sits in the rear on each of the two levels, the upper level is always less crowded…

(second level bar)

…but had to hurry back down to get close to the sound of the first band getting started…

(Lots of Love) photo by J.M.Hebron

Lots of Love: this band is a cross between the playful tunes and vocals of an adorable young Shirley Temple and the animated Betty Boop. The lead singer, Jessica Fleischer, was also in classic black and white; she wore glossy black heels on tips of cream legs, a pair of dove white short shorts with straps over a black fit top, and ebony locks capped with a cloud puff beret--cute as a kid with cotton candy as she fingered her keyboard or strummed a guitar; a darling image reminiscent of yester years when things were simple, innocent, and pure, as they say. The rest of the band and the crimson backdrop with the Safari Sam's logo mask projected massive upon it was lost in the background fuzz. For thirty minutes, Lots of Love wooed the crowd with their Boop-Oop-A-Doop.

Then the waiting began. The awesome DJ started into a crazy set of alternative dance mixes. This place has the best DJ, twice running, playing funkinated remixes of pop and rock music. Or maybe it's the sound system that makes the listening superb, regardless if it is a DJ or band. It's like they have the perfect size speakers, which tower stereo at stage's end, that don't need to be cranked to tweaking levels; vocals don't screech or drown in instrumentals, or vice versa; the bass is not the body jarring type, but is clean and tight; altogether, the sound is loud without ever getting muddled, bounced around, or crackling at different levels, simply a smooth blend from bass to treble.

Not sure the name of tonight's DJ, but she had a whole hour to spin between Lots of Love and the next band; this was where Tuff Luvs, the group from Mississippi, was supposed to take the stage. After Lots of Love cleared their equipment, the stage stayed bare and empty with a few scramblings here and there, but nobody setting up. No fill in band or announcement was made, just the music continued to be played and played. Something must have happened at the last minute for this sudden no show.

Took a long two cigarette drag in the patio coral outside, sitting in a black felt couch that was so low it had to be crawled out of afterwards. Not sure the concept of these club with low lounge seats and high bar stools; you either have your legs crooked like a cricket or stretched dangling unable to touch the ground. Not complaining, it's just one of those realization thoughts when moving from seat to seat feeling out the place. It was comfortable couch, though. There are patio chairs and tables under a cabana for regular seating. Lots of Love was hanging outside as well, enjoying a drink with their fans in the cool night air. The bouncing music of the DJ was heard slightly then louder with each patron passing through the doors. Still, no band.

Going back inside, next to the entrance is a table of flyers for upcoming events at Safari Sam's, including a stack for tonight's show. There are also posters posted throughout the club that promote the shows, including tonight's poster that had a Looney Tunes theme popping with three bunny heads in gas masks. These advertisements are nice, real nice, colorful and catchy artwork printed on thick poster board, a little memento of the event that would look good hanging in any dorm room, or even framed, perhaps. Yes, taking one home was going to be a must, but for now, grabbing a few flyers would do.

(the ‘art’ above the entrance/exit)

After noticing the flyers and moving up the wall to the posters, there was something else that caught the eye further up, above the entrance. It was that mangled heap of circular artwork that was seen before on the first visit; something resembling a junk yard trash heap painted the colors of pastel rainbow. This mix-media is gigantic enough to completely block the doors if it decided to swing down from its fixed position. Took a photo of it for a puzzling look at it later. Still confused on its intended meaning, but that's art.

(Killola)

Then it was 10pm. Stage turned pitch dark for a moment. In next instant, like a fuse reaching the end of the line, the lights burst into firework frenzy as Killola crazed the stage. The female lead, Lisa R., was a non stop rollercoaster riding in a green brothel style St. Pauli Girl outfit with torn fish net stockings over bare feet and eyes covered in a single black line that tapered on the blonde, the android Blade Runner look. The maniac sound of Killola is a mixture of Missing Persons' 'Walking in L.A.', Joan Jett's 'Bad Reputation', a sped up version of The Go-Go's 'We Got The Beat', and throw in gummy guitar licks and a Molotov cocktail performance that burned through the crowd. It got to a slight crashing point when Lisa left to the back stage for a quick upchuck. She quickly returned, mentioned the incident, then went back to wild. She was a seizure on stage electrocuted with strobe lights. Never a calm moment until after their set ended forty minutes later. The band passed out Free stickers and bizarre little show booklets for the taking; a little something to remember the sexy blur; both gone in an instant. *(update: download FREE Killola "Louder, Louder!" & "Live In England" music albums!)**(update: Killola albums are no longer Free.)

(The Dollyrots)

At the top of the next hour, 11pm, The Dollyrots dived into tonight's headliner set. This was the second time watching them, the first was at the Troubadour, but with Safari Sam's exceptional sound, this performance was as clear and crisp as their recorded album. Lead singer, Kelly Ogden was pretty in punk wearing a retro 80's zebra stripe top with black leggings; she also styled in a matching odd mullet hairdo: pouf on top, flat on the sides, and long blonde down the back. Normally, in photos and whatnot, her hair is a sunny frizz. As mentioned in a previous review, if Minnie Mouse sang in a punk band and played bass, The Dollyrots is what her band would sound like: very playful lyrics, upbeat rhythms, power chord guitars, and a squeaky lead singer. High pitched punk rock nursery rhymes. An 'awesome' non-violent fun band for all ages. Their pleasing performance lasted almost an hour, ending close to midnight.

Afterwards, took a quick stop at the merchandise table set-up in the spot between the dinning tables and stool tables. The Dollyrots had everything selling from sweaters to buttons to CDs--a complete line of goods. Killola had a few items. While looking over this stuff, it reminded of tonight's poster hanging on the wall above the flyers. Went back to the front to roll up the poster, but it was already gone, just an empty rectangle spot next to the other upcoming event posters. Started to search for others, but they were all snagged. Was this the norm for an event at Safari Sam's? Guess every fan seeks Free goods anywhere they can get it. Tonight's event was over, so why not remove the old flyer from the walls? Next time, will have to grab one earlier was the thought while exiting. Then a friend came up in the parking lot and pulled a white roll from his bag and handed it to me. It was the poster. Snaps!

So, the night turned out to be Free parking, Free admission, Free Killola stickers & pamphlets, and a Free event poster. Only the alcohol consumption cost money. It might be for this reason that Safari Sam's is having a fund raising drive to Support The Safari Sam's Cultural Events Mission. This recent fund raising email was sent to those on Safari Sam's mailing list. Get on the list and get upcoming event reminders.

*(UPDATED: Feb 23, 2008)*

1.) Heineken was now $6, not $6.50.
2.) Note on Entry Door:

Patron’s of Safari
Sam’s

Beginning Dec. 1st we will
Be charging a $1 facility
Fee to every entrance fee at
The door and online.
This is a separate fee added to The ticket price.

Also beginning January 1st
All minors will need to
Purchase a $3 drink ticket
At the door that will be
Redeemable for water Or
soda’s.

Pop Noir + Peel + That Noise @ Crash Mansion L.A.

2007-09-01T23:00:00.000-07:00

Crash Mansion L.A.
1024 South Grand Ave.
Date: September 1, 2007
Day: Saturday

Over four years ago Crash Mansion NYC took dwelling in New York City. With its success came the landing of Crash Mansion L.A. in downtown Los Angeles, a little over four months ago. Never heard of either, until four days ago.

Four days ago…Pop Noir e-mailed a flyer with their upcoming show at Crash Mansion L.A. The first thing that came to mind was, 'Great this is going to be an awesome show, hearing them play on Indie 103.1 a bunch of times is cool, but this was finally a chance to see them perform live! Now where are they playing? Crash Mansion L.A.? What's that?' The Crash Mansion L.A. website and MySpace site were very helpful and listed most of the bands expected to play that evening, which included the D.J; it came out to be four bands, one DJ, one Saturday night, an 18+ event with $5 cover charge. $2 PBR special.

Checking all the bands' sites ahead of time, including the DJ's, not only helps to build anticipation for the event, but it can also save you some cash. Scope each website and read through the date you want to hit. Sometimes there's an RSVP list you can get on to get in for free. Tonight, DJ THC Electra was making his free list for all who asked. Everything was set. Thanks, DJ THC Electra!

Crash Mansion L.A.: Visit 1

It was Labor Day weekend. Downtown L.A. was as busy as any other business on Christmas Day. The streets were empty, calm. The traffic on the freeway must have been heading out of town or Hollywood, it sure wasn't leading here. Finding a new club is always interesting; there is never a McDonald's size sign to catch the eye, but rather little nuances that catch one's attention. The hint tonight was seeing three guys hanging around a rope in front of an open door of a dark building. The rest of the street was deserted, except for a guy waving a flag into the nearby parking lot. Noticed above the lot, the building side wall read, 'Crash Mansion L.A.'

The guy waving the flag stood next to a big $3 parking sign. At first glance, these always look good and tempting, perfect next to the venue. But there's always something shady about them. Instead, trusted my gut and decided to park in a free metered spot down the street; meters are fed only until 6pm. Took a closer look at the parking lot sign and noticed it was $3 for each 15 minutes, maxing out at $7. For some it's not much money, but the feeling of being suckered included is not worth it; save the money for gas or three PBRs.

(the entrance)

At the entrance, a gentleman with a clipboard and two men dressed in black suits stood guard behind licorice ropes. Matt, the friendly Mr. Clipboard, asked whom I was here to see. Mentioned being on DJ THC Electra's guest list and in return was given a laminated card with the club's logo printed on it. 'Take this card to the counter,' said Matt. In the same moment, one of the men in black asked for ID, then said 'Hold up your right wrist,' as if he was about to book me or take fingerprints. Instead, he strapped on a pink wristband with the club's logo on it. The ropes were unlinked and the men subsided to allow entrance.

(going up!)

Just inside the open doorway is a wide red carpet staircase with mirrored walls leading to the second level; checked the smile and straightened the collar. At the top, a friendly lady waited behind a counter surrounded with candles and upcoming event flyers. To the right of her was the open walkway to what looked like an art gallery. But first, she took the card and that was it--Free. She was talkative and mentioned upcoming events, which was the friendly part (knowing future events were important, but that will be explained later). Made the stroll into the gallery, the first room inside the club.

(Foyer Gallery)

The Foyer Gallery: A beige room with art on display. Currently, it was the L.A. inspired mixed-media showcase from the Czech artists Dan Trantina, at least that is what the introduction placard read. In the middle, two brown armless sofas sat back to back facing the paintings; an odd abstract metal sculpture stood as an end piece. The gallery is an interesting little area to catch a calming moment, distant from the crowd and constant music; a museum in a club. The gallery has two open entrances into the Main Room, but only a trickle of music spills into the gallery, easily spoken over with the casual voice. The awkward thing about this spot is that it's next to the restrooms; then again, maybe not, if one likes to watch the refined art of drunkenness staggering to toilets.

In the far corner of the gallery is the opening leading to restrooms. The men's room is nice, big, and clean, a porcelain white and black tile décor: three toilets, a row of wall stalls, a wall mirror over sinks for sprucing, and a payphone in a cubby corner next to another mirror. Tidy. After checking the bloodshot eyes, it was back through the Foyer Gallery and into either entrance opening to the Main Room.

The Main Room is the main point of attraction, a dark night club pounding with music. Crash Mansion boasts it as an 8,000 square foot area with 28-foot ceilings and a 10,000 watt subwoofer system. It's a stark transition from the calm, placid walls of the gallery.

(one of the bars)

Main Room Bar: An L-counter wrapped around the back corner served bottled beer, PBR in cans, and other alcohol in plastic cups, not picnic cups. Fast service with little to no waiting. Candles adorned the black counter. Liquor bottles filled the back wall for display and choices. Standing room only. Got a $6 Corona. (There are supposedly four other bars that were not operating this evening, which will hopefully be open in the next review.)

(smoking balcony & sign)

Main Room Balcony: Near the corner bar is an exit leading out to the balcony, the smoking spot. No tables, seats, nor ashtrays; a standing room only area with butts on the ground. A good thirty to forty smokers can cram this ledge. This is the side of the warehouse where rooftop lights shine on the one exterior sign and the people; a talkative area with a decent view of downtown. 'Jesus Saves' glowing neon red in the distance was a conversation starter for those that leaned on the railing looking out. A security guard stood quiet in the corner, keeping cool and bothering nobody. (There are stairs from this balcony that lead down to the patio area below, but ropes kept the stairs and patio empty, making it another section to be reviewed on a return visit.)

(Main Room walls)

Main Room lounging: An area contained within walls covered with B&W street art of after-hours freeway scenes, menacing cuddly animals, and other strange visions of the city. Beneath the graffiti are booths that run along the side walls, about a half-dozen, seating each a little over a half-dozen; this area is raised a step above the dance floor, having its own guardrail to keep live ones from flailing into the tables; this is a spot to dine, drink, and view the show like a VIP, for a price, of course. There was no VIP service here tonight, just another place to lounge, though the bottle and appetizer menu was on display beside each flickering table candle.

(Main Room lounging)

Main Room floor: On the slick wood dance floor, ladies were shaking to the beat of DJ THC Electra engulfed by pulsating speakers hanging from the ceiling, three in front and three in the rear, and bass boxes thumping stage side. No special lighting floating across the crowd, not even a disco ball, but the funky fast beats made the butts shake and groove between sets. Taking up the floor area towards the rear were more armless sofas, positioned into two U-shaped lounging areas with each a table in the middle. This lounging spot only looked temporary for the night, occupying half the floor area. As the night progressed, the sofas were spread out at the ends to face the stage.

(DJ THC Electra)

Main Stage: A platform spread across the width of the dance floor, standing three or more feet above the crowd. Spotlights are yellow and only seemed to shine on the drummer and the flanking guitar players; the lead vocalist was stuck in stage center shadows, kind of unusual, especially when trying to take decent pictures. Drummers are set higher on an additional platform, keeping them from getting lost behind performing butts. The sound is superb, though most of the bands tonight had a few sound level issues and adjustments during sets: signaling up and down to the soundman, tapping the microphones, and tweaking equipment between songs. Good or problematic, it all comes down to fun, support, and good music.

(That Noise)

That Noise was the first band to take the stage at 9:30, giving the DJ a break. Jawnee, the shirtless lead singer, with abs cut like a grenade, resembles The Simpson's Sideshow Bob, specifically the skin and hairstyle. This unique band falls somewhere into what may be considered Alternative R&B; they're not exactly Alternative, nor R&B. Jawnee spews soul through verse, then explodes into screaming during the chorus; similar to Linkin Park with pure piano strokes that ease along until being destroyed by a chorus of rage, but instead of an electronic pop to make the band alternative, their keyboard and bass guitar sounds are reminiscent of the 70's Shaft movie, having the undercurrent of disco soul. This band seems relatively new to MySpace. Please listen, like, then add. That Noise was anything but, rockin' and soulin' for a good half-hour.

(Pop Noir)

Pop Noir, two towering twin brothers, Luke & Joe McGarry, wearing matching black, looking like two stretched out young Bob Dylans, took the stage in symmetrical form a little past 10:30, along with their drummer in the middle. Their music is as fun as the name implies: a little electro pop with a dark edge, a mixture of 80's keyboards and classic rock. Pop Noir can easily fit into the uplifting, yet somber Morrissey generation. In a recent OC Weekly article, posted on Pop Noir's site, Luke McGarry mentions that the band often gets compared to 'New Order' or 'early Rolling Stones'. Pop Noir pays tribute to this notion by performing songs from the respective bands: 'Temptation' by New Order and ending their set with 'Paint It Black' by The Rolling Stones. Come to think of it, imagine New Order's instrumentals accompanied with Mick Jagger's vocals and you'll have Pop Noir. Even Luke's dance moves resemble Jagger's as he stepped out onto the dance floor and flailed around his thin frame. They are an updated modern version of rock music that is familiar and nostalgic; their music mirror rock's greatest, much like the twins mirror themselves, but are as different as Luke being on vocals and Joe on guitar.

(the bare a-Peel)

(clothed Peel)

Peel was at 11:30. This group is what probably made this show an 18+ event and not an all age show. If females appeal to your taste, the erotic lead singer Tiki will tantalize your throughout the whole set; tonight she wore black high heels, spandex shorts cut higher than her cheeks, and a torn athletic shirt that slipped from her shoulders soaking up her performance. If guys are more your type, the shirtless Jawnee, from That Noise, returned to play bass guitar; another guitar player started in full black collar uniform, then eventually striped off his coat to reveal his sweating flat board chest; and the jeans only drummer matched his bare sticks. Two band members at stage left, one playing second guitar and the other on keyboards, kept their shirts on, but probably felt overdressed. If the half peeled band doesn't get to you, their music will. It's a dance rock band: high tempo, fast beat, punk pop electronica, with a seductive lead vocalist, similar to Garbage. So, shake your body and break a sweat with the band as they perform their hot thirty-minute workout. Just try not to stand and stare, drooling.

(Crash Hot)

That Noise, Pop Noir, and Peel are all upcoming local L.A. bands that were listed to perform tonight. Then there was an added surprise, a special guest as they say. Crash Hot, from Australia, no affiliation with Crash Mansion, took the stage a little after 12:30. They are a metal band with a similar sound to AC/DC. If you like 'Highway to Hell' or 'TNT', then this band is a perfect match. Stayed for a few songs and took a couple photos to feel them through, then the camera battery went dead and called it a night. The funny thing was that only a couple of photos of Crash Hot were taken, but the images were the best of the whole night, guess that's what's called photogenic.

Crash Mansion L.A. is another state-of-the-art warehouse club in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. There's a lot more to it than what was available tonight, checkout their website for all the details. If there is a negative to this place, it would be the lack of air-conditioning, for this visit at least. Tonight was hot outside and in. Outside the normal Labor Day weekend weather, reaching close to a warm 80 degrees at night; inside industrial floor fans were brought in for added circulation. It was hot, regardless. That was that. This concludes 'Visit 1'. Hope to see you there for Visit 2.

UPDATE: Peel is now known as Piel.

The Binges @ The Roxy Theatre

2007-08-18T23:44:00.000-07:00

The Roxy Theatre
9009 W. Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90069
August 18, 2007
All Ages Event

It was five months ago when finding this Los Angeles based band for the first time, coming across them on their MySpace page. Two guys and two Japanese sisters on guitars playing a maddening renegade biker sound. They had a month long residency at King-King in Los Angeles, but, for whatever reason, could not make a single one of these shows. It was catastrophe missing out on seeing them, like being on a merry-go-round and not being able to grab a ring once in the multiple revolving opportunities. Then, recently, they had a Free show at The Roxy Theatre, just last month. Again, something came up, some poor excuse that caused another no-show to support them. But The Roxy knows when they have a good thing, and the good thing was asked to come back again. And like a prayer being answered in its most mysterious ways, The Binges were once again headlining at The Roxy Theatre.

A Saturday night at The Roxy with The Binges and three other west coast bands was like getting served a four-course meal of musical gratification. It was a few months ago that this venue was hit for review; so knowing all the subtleties of this place made the return feel comforting but, there were nuances that were different and new for this night as well.

To start, it was a weekend night in Hollywood; that is equivalent to saying it was Time Square at lunchtime. Took a while to get there, but was still early. There was no free parking anywhere, never is. The easiest parking was directly across from the venue for a flat rate of $7. Parked and was done with it.

Got there a quarter after 9pm. Hollywood coastalers were lined up and waiting for the box office to open, you know the type, the girls wearing their sexy dress to undress outfits, while guys look as if they just got off the couch; a mixed-up bunch. The doors were said to open at 9:30, but that seemed to have meant for the ticket booth as well. The Puppini Sisters were an earlier show that same evening and people were still leaving the venue. That band had a nice luxurious tour bus waiting in front for them; if it wasn't for them, it sure did not belong to The Binges or any of the unsigned artists on the bill tonight. The bus soon disappeared and the box office window opened.

(ticket window)

Tickets were $13.50 cash; more if paying with credit card. The flyer for the show said $12, but must have been confusion there as well. Got a ticket; not a TicketBastard ticket, but rather a neat Roxy Theatre general admission ticket; then a guy at the door ripped the ticket in half and returned a nub of a stub, oh wells; another guy stamped the back of hands for over 21. Don't forget, this is an all age venue, but if under twenty-one, it's an extra $3 for a drink ticket, which is good towards any nonalcoholic drink.

Once inside, decided to get a table to switch things up from standing all evening, taking a seat at an unreserved spot closest to the stage. A waitress instantly arrived to take drink orders; it's a two drink minimum to sit in this area; the beer variety were bottles poured into a plastic cup for $7; opted to get a Sierra Nevada draft at the draft bar for $6. There was also mention about pizza, a slice for $3 or two slices for $5, but the food menu was depleted tonight because of the earlier concert; so, no food, just more drinking.

(Diego’s Umbrella)

At 10pm, on perfect expected time, the curtain raised for Diego's Umbrella. This first dish of musical melody is from San Francisco. If there was pizza served and settling in the stomach, this band would be a perfect after dinner cigar. Imagine a white gypsy mariachi band wearing flip-flops. They came out decked in matching festive attire and giant glimmering sombreros, playing music reminiscent of Ska, tequila, and Sublime. Their instruments ranged for guitars, bass violins, trombones, and even a dazzling accordion. After the first song, an easy listening instrumental, they flipped their lids and the lead singer revealed his mohawk! The band fired up like it was Cinco de Mayo and the fans began to salsa on the dance floor. Where was the piñata? It wasn't too wild; more like a feeling one could watch them under a hut on a beach in Cabo while sipping in a Corona and a sunset. Their Latin influenced siesta sounds lasted a half-hour.

(Kill The Complex)

Soon, the crowd started to grow with young adults filling the floor area, mainly cute young girls with giddy eyes in floating summer dresses, positioning themselves as close to center stage as possible. They were here to see Kill the Complex. At close to 11pm, the smoke rolled out from under the curtains and silhouettes against spotlights came alive. The sea of fans turned into Tsunami with bodies jumping, hands flying, and screams of thrilling passion. Somebody cranked the volume to eleven! The newly installed bass bottoms sitting on ground floor next to stage pounded the chest like shock paddles with every bass chord and drum blast. Their alternative punk, boy band eyeliner rock speaks truths about grinding through the hard life in Hollywood. "So many come here for freedom but they can't see it," screams lead singer, Dann Saxton in the song Palm Trees. Nobody has it easy around here and this band will make you grip life and reassure that you're not the only one in this world being dumped upon. Cameras caught every moment of performance and frenzied fans; this is their second show at The Roxy, the first was also recorded and can be seen on their website. Their mayhem took the crowd to exhaustion with a thirty-minute set. This second course meal of music would definitely require antacids afterwards.

When the curtains came down for Kill the Complex, the closed minded children that only came to see their one band, began to disperse into the night. Maybe it was past their bedtime, coming close to midnight; whatever it was, it was annoying to see people come for one band and then leave before the next. It's like kids eating desert until they're belly busted, causing no room for anything new or good to consume. The Roxy puts on great shows, and just coming to see one out of four is like eating the whip cream and leaving the rest of the ice-cream sundae behind, cherry included. Hopefully, the kids will learn, someday.

(The Swedish Models)

The Swedish Models were the next treat, starting a quarter before midnight. This band was definitely not Swedish, nor models, nor women, as most would imagine a Swedish model to be. Instead, they're a San Diego based band that dressed to the fashion of Goodwill, Salvation Army hippies, wearing everything from bandanas to feather fedoras to a quilted vest that only the maker could love; even their set dressing had oddities with wildly painted styrofoam heads and an Olvera Street type puppet hanging on the microphone stand; splashes of madcap everywhere; and fans front and center wore 3D sunglasses (the 3D wear was a giveaway as part of the band's party bus to the show). The Swedish Models have a psychedelic garage rock sound of the 60's with free floating electro whining that strings together heavy, lingering chords, double drum sets, and dabbling vocals; a hippie grunge band from the basement. What's interesting is their live performance overpowers their bland recorded tracks. It seems like the producer in the recording studio said, Lets tone it down a good five notches and keep a smooth harmony so it doesn't get too wild. Everything raw and pulsating about their live performance is taken away in their EP. A band like this should record a live album and kick that studio producer to the curb. The Swedish Models wowed the crowd until a quarter past twelve.

(Dylan Squatcho, The Binges)

(The Binges)

Then, finally, one more band to go. Anticipation builds. It was like finishing the appetizers and music side dishes first, leaving the juicy rare sirloin steak for last, salivating, waiting to tear it lose like an animal. Just before midnight, the wild beast was set free in the form of The Binges. Holy Mother of the Lord of Chaos! Head banging girls on guitars, hair in constant whirlwind; a one man wrecking crew drummer; and lead singer, Dylan Squatcho, a Kurt Cobain post death look alike, drowning pain, madness, and suicidal fury into the crowd. They're not painted heavy metal or death rock, but rather, a crude binge rock, with excessive, excessive, excessiveness. Whatever happens in a rock star's hotel room was happening on stage--pure havoc. Slamming a Red Bull, a swig of tequila, a slug of whiskey, and a shot of adrenaline to the heart is nothing compared to this crazed band. They fed it hard and didn't seem to give a damn. The crowed loved it, but at the same time, not certain what the band might do next. Dylan ended up floor side, screaming vocals into a microphone hanging over the edge, then threw a bottle of Jim Beam; a performance with no rules, no boundaries, and volatile; nothing conforming or artificial about them. It was as if they said, We are The Binges, we're going to shove our music down your throat, if you don't like it, screw you. The anarchy lasted until shortly after 1am. No encore.

The Roxy Theatre really knows how to put together a show bill. Tonight was four California coast bands with each a different flavor. The venue's various selections of music seem to comment that if you like The Binges, you may also like Diego's Umbrella, Kill the Complex, and The Swedish Models; and for the most part, they are right. The bands are similar in alternative music category, but with each a unique taste and flair. The Roxy has been putting on shows since 1973, hosting from Sting to Bob Marley, so you know that whatever plays their stage is going to be Grade-A Prime.

The Farm @ Echoplex

2007-08-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

Echoplex
1154 Glendale Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90026

Date: August 16, 2007
Event: The Farm Presents: Organic Music CD Showcase

Echoplex . . . The Echo . . . same thing, right? Wrong.

The only similarity between The Echo and Echoplex is that the Sunset entrance to Echoplex also serves as the only entrance to The Echo. Oh, and if one wants to be anal, they're built on the same ground. Besides that, Echoplex is a whole other something else.

Been to The Echo many a nights, but tonight is the first visit to its sister venue. For the most part, if the Sunset entrance is open, the parking situation is the same as The Echo; there are two nice lots between Lemoyne St. and Echo Park Blvd, just before Sunset, if heading off the freeway. These are general lots and are not exclusive to Echoplex or The Echo, but it is Free parking; the meters do not apply after 6pm. After parking, make sure to hide all belongings from visible view, throw that club on if you got it, close all windows completely, lock-up, and set the alarm; if you have a fierce dog to keep inside the car, that would be good, too; never had anything bad happen yet (knock on God), but there's a sense that somebody is watching and lurking all the time. This ain't the best neighborhood, unless one is trying to score drugs at the lake. Take the mace if you have that as well; a Taser would work fine, too.

After saying a little prayer and leaving the car behind, it's a short brisk walk to Sunset and down the street to the entrance. If you're in the parking lot, walk all the way to the end where there's a fence, turn right and head to Sunset, swing a left at the open late restaurant on the corner, and hurry towards the guy wearing all black, standing in front of an open door, that's one of the entrances (avoid the guy wearing all black and standing in the shadows gripping something shiny). The place has no sign. There is a blown-out Nayarit Restaurant logo on the dark roof, if that helps.

(Sunset entrance)

What doesn't help is if this entrance is locked. Supposedly, on other Echoplex nights, the main and only entrance is on Glendale Boulevard. That's no fun if you parked in the lot. If the door is locked, say another little prayer and cross Sunset Boulevard. Yes, Glendale is the next cross street ahead, but it crosses under Sunset. So, if necessary, bolt across the street like you're heading across the border. On the other side, over the bridge, is a stairway that leads down to Glendale (hopefully there's no vagrants sleeping on the steps). Cross Glendale and head under the bridge. There are two valet guys in front of the tiny parking lot for Echoplex ($6 Valet). There's a Mexican mural on an adjacent building. Go through the lot, some say an alley, and on the left hand side, another few guys dressed in black stand at the steps of double doors. No sign. No nothing. Don't get lost! Come to think of it, both entrances, Sunset and Glendale, seem like back entrances to warehouses or alleys; these streets are not much better than alleys. At either entrance, show ID for tonight's 21+, no cover event.

But back at the Sunset entrance and going in, the locked doors of The Echo are straight, to the immediate right is a short corridor that leads to a staircase heading below. The walls are flat black, like a haunted maze. An antique lamp glowing burlesque red hangs dreary from the ceiling, alone. At the bottom of the staircase, another short black hall leads to Echoplex. Then finally, getting inside—Wow!

The place opens up into a warehouse. Where did this place come from? The Echo is a shack compared to this gold mine. Underground, deep intrigue, abstract music seeps through the place; must be the DJ.

(back bar)

But first thing's first, hit the bar to the left. It's a full bar extending half the length of the back wall. No barstools, nothing unique, just a full liquor spot. Three bartenders keep the drinks moving snappy. The usual Corona in a bottle is $5. Alcohol and beers on tap are served in clear plastic cups. Now, get this, non-alcoholic drinks are served in red plastic cups with sipping straws. This is a 21+ event; there is no need to differ the drinks, except for the bartender to humiliate. But, if you must have a red cup drink, please, toss the sucking tube.

(lounging)

Now there's numerous spots to sit, but the main lounging is next to the bar, filling the other portion of the back wall and corner. A long J-shaped couch with high back cushions makes for perfect relaxing away from the main crowd. It is low seating with a few low coffee tables and a few double butt seats in the middle to match. All the seating is made of a black ribbed vinyl, similar to the look, feel, and seat upholstery used in a 60's or 70's Chevy. A red tube of lights runs across the entire length of the headrest. Another vintage chandelier glowing burlesque red hangs in the center, similar in style to the lantern seen earlier, but larger in size. Twenty or thirty can pack this corner. People can stay in this back bar and lounge area the whole night, if there wasn't more to do and see.

The middle portion of Echoplex is the size and look of a small parking structure. There are at least a half dozen square concrete support columns keeping The Echo above from caving into this lower level. But to keep the look hip, they've placed two butt bench love seats facing each other, the same black ribbed vinyl type, and a low coffee table in the middle, making a cozy set-up between each massive obstruction; lean back on the pillar and kick up your feet. Tiny halogen lights spot shine on the seats, which is about it for the lighting in this middle section, quite dark. The side walls have high back bar stool seating, each side with a spaced row of stools running along a narrow ledge wide enough for a beer. Below the ledge is classy diamond design button tufted upholstery, very nice. Everything is black. Above the ledge is all mirror, but the lack of lighting keeps it from being too noticeable, or you noticeable in it. Go to the restroom if you need to check make-up or to see if hair is stuck in your teeth.

Restrooms are nice (men's); bright as day. Black stalls with red walls, very spacious, two nice private pots and four wall units. Spotless mirrors above every sink. (Please, don't graffiti up the place with any petty attempts at art or etchings.) Tonight there is a toilet valet next to his small table of candy and smokes, serving paper towels to dripping hands.

After a drink, relaxing in the lounge, and then letting out the drink, head to the front towards the bright wonderful colors, a rainbow compared to the bleak black and red décor. The vivid lights of the empty stage, along with a starlight globe striking beams over the crowd, gives this area life, like reaching the pulsating heart of the Echoplex. The modern day disco ball is mounted near a ledge on the ceiling, blocking its rays from shinning through the entire warehouse. Stay in the splendid lights. To the right, Camel cigarette's "The Farm" advertisement, projects on the wall; next to that are the scant foldout merchandise tables. To the left side of stage is a small bar, but a full bar, nonetheless. No need to hike all-the-way-to-the-back for another drink. Next to the bar is the Camel smoke shack set-up for the night. Free Camel cigarette giveaways in return for giving away all your personal info at the swipe of the driver's license. Only Camel Lights and funky flavor smokes available, making the information intrusion unnecessary tonight. (Normally they would stock Camel Filters or Wides, which is the preferred pick for handing over all information, again.) There is also "Fresh Picked Music Volume: 1", which might be worth the exchange of info, but being taken back by the lack of choice cigarettes makes one skip the closer look at this. Snatching a free guitar shaped bottle opener with "ECHO 2007" lettering is good enough.

(smoking patio)

The stage is still empty. The abnormal, late-night industrial music gets a bit too strange. A smoke is necessary. Passing the right side of stage is the Glendale entrance. Passing the left side of stage, next to the conveniently placed Camel booth, is the door to the patio smoking area. It's early, but smoker still abound. The section is half fence, half guardrails, half full of tall tables & bar stools under a small tent, and half full of half picnic tables around the edges. Everything is half-ass. Candy dishes are used instead of ashtrays. This spot needs work. An exotic woman, jet black hair with a body bulging in all the right spots, stands at the rear, alone, the only company being her notepad to take drink orders. Smoke it up and watch arriving fans trickle through the Glendale entrance behind her, or at least make it look like you are watching the people behind her.

A few strums of a guitar leak through the door, the sounds of tweaking and tuning. Take a few last puffs, throw the butt in the candy dish, and head back inside. Finally, making it to the front center, one realizes the grandeur of the stage. It's the size and build of one of those side stages that are constructed for an outdoor multi-stage event. A plethora of colored spotlights and metal trusses assembled together. The engaging backdrop is a breezing white sheet being hit with a fan and reflecting spotlights as pastels. Massive speakers hang stereo, which are inline with the other four speakers equally spaced down the side walls. Normally, while waiting in front of this type of stage, one could look to the sky and see the stars. There's even a crowd barricade for security to stand between, if necessary. And for the bands, there is a back stage area, complete with a door labeled with a star!

(Architects)

At 9pm, the first band, Architects, lash into their performance. They site themselves from Kansas City; not exactly a local L.A. band, unless you consider them part of local America; an Indie punk rock band, nonetheless. They have a bat your face, kick you when your down, and piss on your grave sound to obliterate every damned social injustice. They're a one band burning revolution rioting against uniforms. The 'Big Stick' is in their hands and they're here to wake-up America, exploiting the corruption with bullet songs to the head. "Don't call it a ghetto…call it a wasteland," rages Brandon Phillips, in the song "Don't Call It A Ghetto". The Architects burn every bit of society for a good thirty minutes.

(Gore Gore Girls)

At a quarter before 10pm, Detroit band, Gore Gore Girls feminize the stage. Four bubble gum Goth Go-Go-Girls with crotch high slick dresses, thigh boots, and massive rockabilly guitars tantalize the crowd. Bubblegum bop Barbarella sirens multiplied by four. If there was a good hell, they would play among the flames next to the tail tapping devil. Happy-gore-lucky. They perform their seduction for the damned for a good forty minutes.

(Irving)

Los Angeles based band Irving start by 11pm. They have a sound and look of a group grown in Woodstock; a modern 60's group. Taste the psychedelic setting sun and sip on the tie-dye soup in the land of Irving: life, love, and the pursuit of perfect well being, with blue daisies, tambourines, and soul flying keyboards. Everything is going to be okay; if not feeling it yet, take another drag, or listen to another of their songs. They are an uplifting forty-five minutes on stage tonight.

(Gena Olivier, Midnight Movies)

(Midnight Movies)

Midnight Movies strike conveniently at midnight. With a perfect name for an ominous sounding band from Los Angeles, lead singer Gena Olivier's vocals chill the spine with soothing embrace. Her voice echoes like a lost soul searching the underworld, hopelessly, already damned, but still believing in redemption. A montage of eyes, forests, and other b-movie visuals flicker on the backdrop. She is the new Mistress of the Dark, playing homage to the creatures of the night. Mix together alternative Goth, a Pied Piper flute, tribal drums, and hollow choruses for a witch's brew called Midnight Movies. Their set last nearly a darkest hour.

(the night is done)

By 1am, the house lights turn bright, the crowds disperse, and empty cups appear over the floor. It is a good night of Free music, courtesy of Camel. The Echoplex is a state-of-the-art experience with perfect sound, no reverb, and spectacular mood lighting. This is a pinnacle venue in a rundown part of town. It does get a little warm at times, but what venue doesn't? Try not to leave through the Glendale entrance if the Sunset exit is available. If you leave through Glendale and do not go up the shady steps back to Sunset, it is a long grim walk around the block, past Echo Park, past a few vagrants sleeping in the shadows, past the cops blocking off the road, and past stray cats crossing your path. It's a nervous sweat back to the lot. After making it safely back to the car and onto the freeway, you can return to reminiscing about the awesome performances of the night.

Pull Your Pants Up @ Prospector

2007-08-07T23:51:00.000-07:00

Haskell's Prospector
2400 E. 7th St.
Long Beach, CA 90804
Date: August 7, 2007
Day: Tuesday
Event: Pull Your Pants Up!

Going off the trail…Out of Los Angeles and into Long Beach for this night. First time 405 East was actually heading 405 west. L-A to L-B. Not that L.A. is running out of endless venues to cover, but with four irresistible local bands expected to play at Prospector, it was a nice chance to do some prospecting in a different city. Going to this place is like hypothetically getting out of Dodge City Los Angeles and literally ending up in an 1849 Gold Rush saloon.

Rode into town long after sunset and parked my ride in the small corral behind the place; ten free spots to rest those horsepower engines. Street parking is available, just needs a little more searchin'. Got there around 10:15pm. Seemed a little early and quiet, the calm before the shoot out.

The place is a little isolated bar on the corner. Cartoon images of the Old West alive across the walls: cowboys & 'American' Indians, donkeys and prospectors, and cheesy western plains to top an entire spaghetti western. Comical. There's even a replica water well with hanging tin bucket. The well is next to the back exit where the bands load gear inside when it's their time to play. Meanwhile, they can sit on two available benches outside and watch their stuff as it lay on the sidewalk. It's a cool spot to smoke and hang with the bands. One of the members from Oslo actually bummed a smoke. Also had a moment to speak with Martin Klingman from Gliss, talking about his awesome time opening for Smashing Pumpkins. Relaxed atmosphere. On the other side is the main entrance. A life size cowboy with his brothel babe is pictured on the doors; split them up and headed inside.

Just inside is an area for stashing or grabbing free newspapers or flyers. The entranceway is to the right where a big ol' scruffy fella stands guard. He'd be a perfect prospector if they made him wear overalls, a red plaid shirt, and a sloppy brown hat; instead, he wore a T-shirt. He checked IDs oh-so-carefully under the podium light (21+ only), took the $5 cover charge (normally $3), stamped the Japanese character for 'flower' on the back of the hand (ha-na), then moved his boulder body aside and allowed passage into the cavern.

It's not a big place; more like a mining tunnel with a narrow passage that branch into different sections. The bar is the first sight seen, stretching the length of the constricted route. Ten cushy bar stools line the cushion edge of the bar; not sure the reason for the big soft edge that runs the length of the bar; maybe people passed out and hit their heads on the counter one too many times; the stools are slippery vinyl type. Nonetheless, it's a full bar with cheap bottle beers: $3 for domestics or $3.5 for imports--a perk for getting out of Los Angeles. Prospector's page has complete bottle and tap listings. Above the back bar are three television sets hanging from the ceiling; at the end of the bar is a classroom sized projection screen pulled down (pulled up once the bands started); every screens showed the same sports channel, muted. Tonight, Barry Bonds broke the home run record of Hank Aaron; he does it every few minutes throughout the night. Maybe this would indicate it as a sports bar. Got the usual Corona, then scooted halfway through the narrow walkway along the bar before noticing the window door to the restaurant lounge.

(restauraunt lounge)

The restaurant kitchen was closed, but the seating area open. By day, Prospector serves a nice food menu full of specialties. By night, the dinning area turns to a lounging area separated from the nonstop music. Here, there's a choice of tables for couples or a bunch of big booths that seat six to eight; mostly empty. Old western paraphernalia whips and the like clutter the discolored wallpaper. Something about the vinyl mustard seats, the aged wallpaper, and the lack of music made this area a bit energy depleting, like visiting the old home of a dying grandmother; a place that just sucks the life out of a person. The place was founded in 1965. Had to get back to the music and life happening on the other side.

(DJ Velvet Touch)

Got back on the narrow path, then finally making it to the end of the bar. The trail then opens up to the open floor. They could've probably stuck seven barstool tables in this spot, but instead, kept it to three lining the far wall, seating four a piece, tightly. DJ Velvet Touch (Eric G.) had his own spot with his turntables and gear setup, taking care of the auditory ambience between the bands with a variety of alternative songs and remixes. Across from him is a miniature wagon labeled 'restrooms' that is mounted between the Mr. & Ms. doorways. The soundboard is in the back corner, next to the DJ and under the "Danger Keep Out" sign hanging from the mining cave protruding from the wall. The sign is a warning that nobody reads, but is meant for the door next to it that leads to the kitchen; got open multiple times by people thinking it was the back door, or maybe they were looking for another place to piss; the men's restroom was a closet with a toilet, wall stall, and a sink with paper towels and soap; stunk like a gagging public park toilet; and this closet door has no lock, except for a foot against the door if one needed to drop a two. Nasty. One other seating is a lounge booth located below a partial wagon that looms from the wall. This seat faces the stage, but is slightly obstructed by barstools at the bar and standing people.

(stage)

The stage is at the end of the bar; what's strange is that it seems like a wedge shaped area that was added as an extension, like somebody cut a rectangle hole in the wall to construct this part. Two massive speakers sit at each end of the stage cave while a red neon glowing 'Guinness' sign hangs above the lip. The actual stage is a descent size triangle corner that is one step up from the ground floor. Only a single strand of red and white lights droop on the wall for decoration; no other special stage lighting. In short, the stage is a simple cubbyhole. A path in front leads to a side door hidden from view where bands load equipment from outside.

Tonight's live event is called and is promoted by: Pull Your Pants Up! This event is often scheduled to take place at Prospector every first and last Tuesday of every month, sometimes more. The line-up is mostly local Indie alternative bands, sometimes from out-of-state as well. It's a night of good music, regardless.

The expected band time and line-up were as follows:

10:15—Venus Infers
11:00—Oslo
11:40—Gliss
12:15—Moderates

But the events that actually occurred are as follows:

As mentioned, got there a quarter past ten o'clock, thinking to make it easily in time for the start of Venus Infers. Was looking forward to watching them again. (Saw them first perform at Viper Room and caught wind of their talent; simple lyrics in symbolic form; a fun alternative pop tune band with a female lead singer singing songs about Please Don't Call Me Karaoke.) But tonight the band would only be hanging out until they were canceled for whatever reason. Somebody showed up late or something. In any case, Moderates took the stage first around 10:40.

(Moderates)

Moderates were moderate. They're a band of three and their added attraction were three light stands glowing yellow, blue, or red light bulbs that blinked a few times. Somebody must think it's cool, maybe. One song 'Mr. Freeman' has a guitar riff similar to Silversun Pickups' 'Lazy Eye'; thought it sounded familiar. Other songs are easy going Indie rock. They sound a lot better on their web page, but if you're listening to them there and enjoying the music, then imagine the tunes without the smooth keyboard/piano holding it together; that's how they are live--no keyboard/piano (at least tonight this was the case). They played until a little after 11.

Oslo was up next, getting started near 11:30. It's been a long while coming since hearing their music and waiting to see them finally. They did not disappoint. Their current logo is a heart shaped American flag with an M-16 rifle in the middle. Nice. Imagine the band Filter without the screaming and you'll get Oslo. They could create the perfect somber mood if heard over a montage of archive war footage—marching troops, bombs exploding, helicopters flying over, rattling machine guns, and throw in that hydrogen bomb blast that everybody loves. Tears will shed. While taking photos of their performance, they started to perform the song 'My Soul'. The vocals and rhythm are calm and yet haunting enough that the camera was lowered and beer had to be sipped a few more times, taking in the full comforting gloom that seeped within; a kick in the gut. Maybe it was just a personal thing, remembering the past. They played until a little after 12.

It was another late night as Gliss finally got to start their set around 12:30; the headliner starting the next day, not a good thing. They had a few pale red floodlights resting on the floor for additional mood. No smoke machine tonight. Saw them before at The Roxy, but tonight was even better; they were closer to the audience and singing right in your face, practically. They were jamming hard, switching instruments, as usual, and keep the place going until well after one in the night. (Checkout The Roxy Theatre review for comment on their music.)

By the way, the sound system is supreme in this place. The vocals are crisp and can easily be heard among the instruments. One could actually hear clearly the lyrics being sung. It's a loud little place with barely any echo or unwanted reverb. No crackling or tweaking. No speakers playing at their distorting maximum level. No ungrounded cables buzzing. Just clean loud perfection. Or maybe sitting next to the speakers made all the difference.

Visiting the Prospector for Pull Your Pants Up! night is worth the extended drive to Long Beach (it would have been even better if Venus Infers got to perform). The place is an intimate bar setting with a little more relaxed atmosphere compared to some L.A. joints; kind of looks and feels like a Frontierland at Disneyland for the 21+ crowd; live band and alcohol instead of long lines and roller coasters, but with the same Gold Rush era décor. Just thinking, another minus for the place might be for short fans trying to get a view of performances; best thought is to get at one of the tables near the stage. Besides that, the pro's of this place crushes the cons. Prospector hosts other events on other nights, karaoke and the like. But tonight was done. It was time to saddle up my ride and mosey on back to the ranch for some good ol' shuteye.

Eastside Mondays @ Wilshire Royale

2007-07-30T23:44:00.000-07:00

Wilshire Royale
2619 Wilshire Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90057

Date: July 30, 2007
Event: Eastside Monday's

Somewhere in the left nut of Los Angeles at the corner of Rampart and Wilshire used to be Wilshire Royale Hotels that eventually turned into Wilshire Royale Apartments, but for all extensive purposes it is now simply known as Wilshire Royale. No Royale with cheesy here. It's exactly the opposite. On Monday nights all rooms should be emptying into the comfort of the lounge at Royale for Eastside Monday's. Unfortunately, the apartments are vacant or the people living in them are clueless of what's literally happening right under their noses.

Eastside Monday's a little undiscovered event that is just waiting to explode with popularity. Waiting to be blocked off by velvet ropes and promoters. Waiting to be filled with big bouncers and a load of security. But tonight it was just a few dozen fans, including the L.A. bands, that gathered.

So, what makes this venue sell itself as the next big hot spot? How about Free valet parking. Pulled up to the front where two guys were sharing a sandwich at a podium positioned next to the curve. There's no sign and there's nowhere else to park, so had to trust that they really were valet. One of them came around to the driver side, handed out a valet ticket, and took the car around the corner. It was nice that the guy didn't take his sandwich with him, too.

After trading the car for a paper ticket and watching the ride disappear, it was a curvy line from the curb to the front locked doors of the apartment lobby to the doors on the corner that is the lounge entrance. Yeah, felt really good about that valet, thinking of all the stuff that should have been better hid under the backseat floor mats.

A fashionable slim fellow wearing a flat leather jacket stood casually by the entrance checking IDs (21+). No wristbands, no stamps, no hand marks, just a Thank You and into the show.

Doors were said to open at 9pm with the first band to start at 10pm. Got there close to 10:30. The bashing garage band sound of The Health Club spilled through the doors. Somber vocals offset by straining instruments sets this band apart. A sound like the lead singer just cried his heart out a few minutes before he had to take the stage. It's not obvious at first, but there is a sympathetic emotion in his vocals that connects with the soul while guitars, drums, and the singer's dancing feet are having a great time. Their set ended close to 11, though likely a half-hour set starting late.

While the band unstrapped their guitars, the DJ started up. An actual DJ in the corner mixing all types of remixes, especially from the pop 80's. Music fed to speakers hanging in the corners throughout the lounge and there is a lot of lounge.

(the bar)

The main lounge where the entrance and show takes place is the largest area. There is a long black bar with six bar stools lining the front with standing room at the corners. Nothing fancy, just a bar with a nice array of glasses and bottle lit behind. Oh, and a giant photomural print above, reminiscent of somewhere in Los Angeles. There are more massive photos prints, billboard size, on the far corner wall, one being Harvey Keitel aiming a pistol at the viewer. It serves as the backdrop for a large plush circle booth, a giant C-shaped couch that is said to sit thirty people comfortably. In the middle is a circle table with a chic glass chandelier dripping lights down from above. Other seating includes six regular circle tables that form the edge of the stage, seating two apiece. Flickering white candles in glass placed on each. Then there is the stage. It's the floor area where the tables have been moved aside. The backdrop to the bands are ceiling to floor windows with ceiling to floor curtains peaking open to Rampart Boulevard. The rest of the place is coffee colored with lights dimmed to amber to ease the mood.

(Westlake lounging)

Then there is the back lounge. Even more lounging. If walking in from the entrance, it is directly to the right, up a slight ramp passing the end of the bar, and through an opening that becomes Westlake lounge as some call it, but not exactly certain as to why. Maybe it's the backlit wall to wall to ceiling photo of what might be Westlake? Magnificent blue skies, condos, and palm trees create a tranquil day mood here instead of a bleak window view of Wilshire Boulevard at night. On an adjacent wall, an enormous abstract art of a different nature joins it at the corners. Both nestled above a low white corner L-couch with a square cushion center, pouffes, in place of a table. Relaxing. The band can be heard, but not visible from back here. A few high chairs and circle tables round out the other corners of this area. A nice flat screen on the wall for additional visual ambience, no sound. If that's not enough, a trip to the restrooms back here can be a surprise.

There are two unisex restrooms with no sign, only a framed opaque glass door with a lever door handle. Like a restroom one might find in somebody's home. A nice room with tile walls. There is a lot that can be done in these private stalls. Hmmm. And whenever she's done doing it, there's minty mouthwash to rinse out any aftertaste. A small cup and mouthwash dispenser hangs on the wall above the sink. Never seen such a thing before. A nice rinse after a cigarette was good to boost the fresh breath confidence. Speaking of smoking, there is the patio area just beyond the back doors of both lounges.

(patio lounging)

The patio area connects to the lounges, the rear lobby to the apartments, and the restaurant on the other side. Royale restaurant was closed, but is known to serve expensive good food. Whatever the case, the patio was the place to smoke if not smoking out on the street in front. Strands of light bulbs buzzing on dim hang overhead beneath the awning. Fewer than a half-dozen wicker lounge seats with matching ottomans sit around the edges with glass end tables. Heat lamps are scattered around, but of no use on this cool summer night. There are a few sets of screeching black wrought iron chairs and tables a few steps above near the lobby entrance, but this overflow patio seating was unnecessary this evening. (Also, a pool that is too small and too hidden to be mentioned.) Had a smoke and was ready for the next band.

Got a $5 Corona at the bar, took a seat at one of the candle lit tables, and waited a few minutes until Thailand took the floor around 11:30. They had a few sound difficulties that made it obvious of how this event was set-up. Drums were loud enough not to need any sound level boosting. The vocals and the keyboard were connected to the small house speakers that hang in the corners, while the guitars and drum machine had only the monitor and guitar amps that the band brought. The vocals and keyboard quickly drowned in guitars when the band started, but that might have been because one guitar amp was facing directly at me. It would have probably been better to stand back at the bar to hear Marc Linquist's vocals that are reminiscent of a smooth, non high pitched R.E.M. Thailand has an alternative rock pop sound for listening while driving up the coast on the 101 freeway as the sun is setting. Not a feeling of being stuck in traffic with everybody hurting. (No offence Michael Stipe.) Set ended close to midnight.

It was definitely a late evening that lasted into Tuesday. If one wanted to get a bit of shut-eye for a few moments, the best spot would be to head upstairs. Yes, there are more surprises above.

(staircase)

Next to the patio entrance in the bar lounge is a lacquered wood staircase that spirals around to the top. A stairway that might have been taken from a log cabin. Antler chandeliers hanging from above. Stuffed birds mounted on the walls. This place doesn't keep to one theme, except for the dim amber tint mood everywhere. Definitely an escape from L.A. In one room directly to the left is a burgundy pool table set-up with a view to the patio. All Free. Balls in the pockets and sticks on the rack. Another muted flat screen hangs on the wall. A couple chairs and tables. A room across from this is the Safari room, as it should be called. An eerie sight of sculpted antelope heads pokes through branches against dirt painted walls. More stuffed and mounted birds, a lot more, on another wall. And small thick-framed classical mirrors hang about in odd places with no clear purpose. Whatever the case, the two low lounge couches on the outskirts of the low center table and brown shag carpet are comfort enough if somebody needs to relax back for a bit. Speakers in the corner pumped DJ music. Another flat screen television mounted on the wall. Also, there's two doorway sized balcony views to the bar lounge and band below. Was this part of the lounge or somebody's pimp studio apartment loft? Two more swank restrooms up here as well.

(safari lounging)

So, after a quick dream about living in this lounge, it was time to watch the final band: The Natural Disasters. 12:30am. Two guys; a drummer and a singer with a guitar. Wasn't expecting much after listing to them on their MySpace page, but ten feet away and live was something else. Thrashing and bashing in somebody's living room is what it felt like. The Health Club, Thailand, and a few remaining fans sat around watching and enjoying the performance. It was a nice happy moment for some reason. A feeling like everything was good. Bands supporting the bands. Everybody's a fan.

(The Natural Disasters perform/Thailand watches, right)

At about one in the morning, the bands were done. The DJ started again until his night ended at 2. Some people lingered, but most cleared out. Pulled the valet ticket from my pocket and heading outside. No podium. No valets. Not even a sandwich rapper on the ground. Soon realized that the valet lot was around the corner. Got my car, checked for all belongings, which were still there, and then called it a night. $5 plus tips was all that was spent. Eastside Monday's hosts Rock or R&B, depending on the night. Check their site. See you there soon!

Free Monday @ Troubadour

2007-07-23T23:01:00.000-07:00

Doug Weston's Troubadour
9081 Santa Monica Boulevard
West Hollywood, CA 90069

Date: July 23, 2007
Day: Monday
Event: Free Monday!

trou·ba·dour [troo-buh-dohr] –noun.

1. one of a class of medieval lyric poets who flourished principally in southern France from the 11th to 13th centuries, and wrote songs and poems of a complex metrical form in langue d'oc, chiefly on themes of courtly love.

2. any wandering singer or minstrel.

--Random House Unabridged Dictionary

After doing a little research, the extent being a dictionary, it has come to attention that Troubadour in West Hollywood actually has a name that is befitting its image. Been there a few times before, but never put too much thought as to why the name. What's in a name, right? Whatever the case, Troubadour is definitely a place for 'any wandering singer' or medieval poet with a guitar that can verse songs of love. It's a welcome place for all types of musicians passing through, big timers and independents.

Tonight was dedicated to hosting the local bands. 'Free Monday!' is what it's called. Yes, even Troubadour has free shows. (Under 21 is $3.) It's an all ages event and everybody is welcome, even mothers that bring their kids! Not joking. All ages means all ages. The doors opened at 8pm. Got there shortly afterwards.

So, skipping the parking situation, because it all sucks ($7 parking lot across the street, meters free after 6pm but nothing open, 'permit parking only' in other spots, except on the west side of Doheny; three blocks North past Santa Monica, which is a long cigarette walk) and jumping right to the venue itself with the name "doug weston's Troubadour" in large white Old English lettering sprawled across the black panel roof, proudly lit for all to notice. Above the roof is a small sun faded light box marquis with the list of tonight's bands: The Randies, The Dollyrots, and Glacier Hiking.

The rest of the front is composed of stucco, windows, and two bouncers in black manning the entrance. Smokers hang here as well. From the exterior, the place looks like an old English tavern, just needs a wooden sign swinging across the front in place of the big security. One guy stands as the beefy bully while the other checks IDs and straps on an orange wristband labeled "Troubadour" for anybody over 21. It's actually the best wristband of all places, because it has their name on it and they always seem to be in a different color every time. Not sure what to do with them afterwards, though. Whatever the case, it allows the purchase of alcohol at the cost of $7 a Corona and a receipt.

Just inside the entrance is a small standing lobby area with two advancing options, go straight through the thick wooden doors below the red glowing "Showroom" sign or head to the left where the first bar is located. (To the right against the wall are flyers and postings for upcoming shows and local events.) It was early, so the bar was the first stop.

(front bar)

From a first glance, this front bar resembles an old fashion saloon with modern trimmings and dim mood lighting. Like something out of a western, having a worn down multi-tone bar with engraved decorative wood and antique iron barstools. No spittoon. Built to last. Under the two front windows framed in wood panel walls are bench cushions with small lounge tables. A nice place to sit and smile at those outside that can't get in when there's a sold out show. Like sad doggies looking in. But none of that tonight. Everybody is in tonight. Against the far wall is a lounge booth where the bands setup their merchandise. Didn't buy anything. Was a bit short on cash. Instead bought the overpriced Corona, the only purchase of the night. Sat at the bar for a bit watching the flat screen in the corner that was mounted above the one pot restroom door. The screen showed the empty stage. Nothing yet. But there is a lot to be seen hanging on the walls, ranging from gold record type memorabilia, a row of press photos of previous musicians that have probably passed through, and a sign advertising $2 ear plugs. A bunch of trinkets to remind fans of the historical significance of this place. A neon red Troubadour sign glowed behind the bartender.

Around 8:30pm, The Randies took to the stage on screen. The speakers in this bar played as loud as elevator music, causing it to drown out in people's conversations. It was time to get going. Took the camera out and headed for the Showroom doors. Got blasted with a few bass chords upon entering. Three chick guitars and a drummer were going at it on stage. Red, blue, purple, and white spotlights shined down from above, glowing and dimming in alternate sequences. A lot of lights. A blank white screen hung as the backdrop under a neon blue Troubadour sign. Every place a sign to remind. The band was sweating it out on a stage that is a good three feet above the standing room crowd and deep and wide enough for a small orchestra. Has a one step bulging lip center stage for the lead singer to step to the crowd. These girls were killing the place with punk rock apocalyptic sounds that never slowed down. Lit energy and intensity as if playing through doomsday with bombs dropping and all hell breaking loose. Nothing was going to stop these women from making their hell known. Two massive bass bottoms on the floor and a row of speakers above stage blasted their ammunition. One guitarist, Laurita Guaico, had a broken wrist with a guitar pick taped to her finger. That's a trooper. Their madness lasted 'til 9pm.

(The Randies)

While listening to the Blues between sets, took a stroll to the bar in the back, opposite the stage. Didn't much feel like coughing more cash for another beer, though. This second bar is under the balcony seating area. It's a U-counter that is all tile, something a little different. Beyond the bar, against the far wall, are a few tables and stools with neon beer signs glowing above. More stools line around the back and side counter of the bar. It's a little back corner seating area. Candles flicker in red jars scattered around. So, what's with all these seats that have a bad obstructed view of the stage? It's actually a little cozy somewhat lounge area conveniently set-up near a food menu and order window. The chef cooks up cheeseburgers and other hot munchies for the liking. It's expensive. $9 for a club sandwich. But if the stomach is growling for food or death, and The Dollyrots are coming up next, what else can be done. Good thing a 99cent McDonald's double cheeseburger before the show kept the stomach settled. The front bar counter facing the stage is standing room only. Two bartenders were satisfying fans in no time.

(bar and kitchen)

Around 9:15, The Dollyrots took the stage. And punk rage continued. What's better than watching a chick band? Answer: watching two chick bands. The cute blonde lead singer, Kelly Ogden, on bass was firing it up big time. Sounded like Minnie Mouse on speed, singing about skate keys and other deep philosophical stuff. Her bass guitar was thumping the crowd with every chord. There is definitely music to be felt in this place. What's awesome is that her vocals are such high pitched that they don't drown out in the instruments. In the middle of the set, she got a few fans on stage with her to sing the chorus to the song "Because I'm Awesome". A little stage interaction never hurts. It was a lively set lasting 'til 10pm, bashing apart the pink bunny gasmask drum set in the end.

(The Dollyrots)

So, now it was time to let out the Corona. The front bar restroom had a line forming outside the door. There's another restroom next to the stairway to the balcony, located in the farthest corner from the Showroom entrance. Three wall stalls, a toilet, a sink, and a hand blower here. Nothing unusual. Then took a hike up the stairs to the balcony. Dressing rooms to the right and stadium bench seating straight ahead. Four rows of counters and benches that rise toward the rear. Each row fitting about 8 to 10 each. Not the closest spot to watch the action below, but raised seats makes the viewing partially visible, even from the last row. The front row being the obvious best 'seat' in the house for the general admission. A brick wall path behind the seating area leads to the other stairs on the opposite side that descends back to the bar under the balcony near an odd window with a view to the front bar from behind the bar.

There is also The Loft, which was closed tonight. Never been in there, but it's a room on the second level that is closed off to general admission. It's where the A&R lounge with other VIP-ers. The stairs are to the immediate right, just inside the Showroom doors, which lead up to the side of the stage, then further up to The Loft and a solo bench for balcony viewing just outside the room. Tonight the stairs to the bench was open, but The Loft room locked. The musicians have their own loft on the other side of stage with stairs to scramble down to get the crowd excited. The place tailors to everybody's needs.

The guy duo that is Glacier Hiking took the stage at 10:15 or so. The white screen was for them as they projected their psychedelic images that corresponded with the music, of sorts. One sings while the other plays guitar and samples from a Mac. The crowd was waiting for them. The place was packed and jumping with hands in the air. Never heard them until a few days before, but obviously a lot of people were well aware of them. Sang easy alternative to rap-rock. Not sure what to exactly make of them. No drums, no bass guitar. Whatever. Their recorded songs sound good, but live was another story. They had their own crowd without the likes of additional bland criticism for them. Did a double-encore, too.

(Glacier Hiking)

It all came to an end shortly after 11pm. Stepping out into the cool night made the sweat dripping down my head cooler and realized that the place was pretty warm inside, except under the air-conditioning vents. A nice evening to take a lazy stroll back to the car parked a few blocks away, contemplating thoughts about the historic venue just visited and the frustrated thoughts on trying to describe the many intricacies of the place. This night was just a blip on the many returns. Overall, the evening cost $7 for one beer and three bands—four if one includes the wristband. Idiot.

Also I Like To Rock @ Hammer Museum

2007-07-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

The Armand Hammer Museum
Of Art and Culture Center
(no relation to Arm & Hammer,
but strangely similar)
10899 Wilshire Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90024

Date: July 19, 2007
Day: Thursday
Event: Also I Like To Rock

As we all know, music is a form of art, so why not have it showcased at a museum once in a while? Sounds like a good idea, huh? It sure is when Indie 103.1 brings some of the best of local upcoming bands to display their artistry at Hammer Museum every Thursday in July. Come feast your eyes on classical and contemporary art works that are worth a thousand words apiece, then stay to tantalize the ears with musical pleasantries throughout the evening.

One of the best rewards for seeking out good local bands and showing up to support them is that often times the event is Free. Tonight was no exception and it was worth every penny saved.

The Hammer is just a few blocks east of the 405 freeway in Los Angeles, or Westwood Village, as the locals like to prefer. A beautiful area of class and riches abound. A very nice neighborhood to be in at any time of day or night. Making it all a bit uncomfortable for one who enjoys the homeliness of Silverlake.

It all starts with the museum. Admission to the Hammer Museum is free all summer long until September 2nd. Parking under the museum is the only expense, just off of Westwood Boulevard. There is a different rate for daytime, but after 6:30pm on Thursdays there is a flat rate of $3. Only thing bad about a parking structure is that cars may be coming at different times, but they'll all be leaving at the same time. There is a tiny bit of evening street parking available, but make sure to read all the posted sign language and see if it makes any sense to park.

Walking through the glass door entrance on Wilshire Boulevard or entering from the parking structure, both paths leads to the lobby area of Hammer. To one side is a room currently exhibiting the 365 works of Song Kum, a painting a day she did for a year now on display. Just outside the room is a table with half empty beverages that aren't allowed in the room, which people will pick-up upon exiting. Seriously? The other artwork is all over the walls leading up the staircase to the courtyard. Optical Art of Terry Haggerty. Kinda trippy. Thought it was part of the decorative effect of the building interior, until noticing people taking pictures of it. Yeah, not exactly artistically inclined.

(the courtyard)

The open-air courtyard is the centerpiece of the Hammer. Though a flight of stairs had to be walked, it is still the ground floor because of the parking lot below. The rest of the museum surrounds the courtyard with two levels of exhibitions and The Billy Wilder Theatre. Kind of like a square donut structure with the center being open to lush green trees, bamboo, and an Indie music event.

Black cloth covered merchandise tables were the first welcome upon entering into the courtyard. Low vs Diamond had a table selling $5 EPs. Hammer had flyers for all their upcoming events, including free posters of tonight's month long music event: Also I Like To Rock. Fueltv had a table with junk stuff. And Indie 103.1 had a table of free key chains, but more importantly free CDs of Mr. Shovel's Check One…Two Volume III. Twenty awesome songs from local L.A./O.C. bands. Free! Free! Free! Every band on there should be a MySpace friend and show attend. Shovel picks some great stuff. Get one while supplies last!

Anyway, as mentioned, the courtyard is a large open area spotted with bamboo and trees in planters for the natural touch. Everything else seems to color coordinate with the drab gray monochrome building. But the event was anything but drab. A cash only bar was the next spot hit with beer and wine available. Got a Bud Light in a bottle for $4. Drank half of it, couldn't stand the taste, and threw it away. Obviously not much choice in beers tonight. Grolsch was on tap served in a plastic cup, the beer sponsor for the night, but can't stand the bitter taste of that, either.

The good thing was that smoking in the courtyard is permitted. Yes, some may not like the stagnant cloud of smoke, but for those that do, this was a soothing place to enjoy a cig. Ahhh.

For other comforts, tall metal standing room only tables and patio tables with chairs were plentiful, scattered along the rim. Seating on the thick edges of the planters were also abundant. Benches on the second level overlooked the scenery below. But who sits in the outskirts when everybody should be getting close to the stage or enjoying the art exhibitions.

(soundboard, DJ, and stage)

The stage was at the far end of the courtyard where all the action was to ensue. A nice beefy stage a good three feet above with all the room one needed for an awesome performance. A massive Indie 103.1 logo projected behind the drummer flanked by Grolsch and Fueltv logos, reminding everybody of the sponsors. IFC had a logo and clips from their channel projected on a sidewall nearby. Everybody was getting their advertisement on display. No problem, if they're the ones that made the event Free. The Hammer projection on its own wall was subtle, but bold. A DJ was set-up nearby playing the best grooves and mixes all night long before and after the bands. Speakers abound next to the stage, around the stage, and near the trees. The music of the DJ was everywhere. But only the left and right speakers next to the stage were used for the bands, which were plenty loud enough, if close enough.

Got there around 8pm. Should have got there earlier to see more of the exhibitions. It was still daylight. The blue skies of the courtyard were slowly turning to dusk as the night started to settle in overhead.

Took a quick glance at some of the fine art, but a little after 8:30pm, the voice of Mr. Shovel could be heard seeping into the gallery as somebody opened the glass doors to exit. It was finally time to get art appreciation of a different stimulus. He announced the first band Low vs Diamond.

(Low vs Diamond)

By now, it was night. A total of four spotlights mounted stage side highlighted the band with red, yellow, and green tints. The band played over a half-hour. For whatever reason, their set sounded distorted. It was like the vocals got lost under instrumentals that bounced off the walls of the courtyard. When they sang their popular song, Life After Love, it was barely recognizable. Seemed like just a bunch of loud clashing. Will have to check these guys out again in a better environment, like at their Spaceland residency in August. Hopefully it has nothing to do with their equipment. Took a moment to view the show from the second level, looking down at them through the trees. Not a lot of good spots up there to see the band without obstruction. The best locale on the second level was behind the stage, looking down. No trees. But that was reserved for VIP. The lead singer ended the set with a few songs from the keyboard. The energy was there, just the bad acoustics were a bit to bear.

(Low vs Diamond, through the trees)

It was a little after 9pm when their set ended and the DJ started up again. Thought to continue to peruse through the museum once again, but came to realize all the exhibits closed at 9. Darn. Gave another mumble of Should have got here earlier. Soon it was after 9:40 when Mr. Shovel took the stage again and announced Castledoor!

(Castledoor)

Now it was either the buzz from the half beer kicking in or a fix in the sound, but they sounded perfect. Crisp tunes of keyboards and chords nestled with vocals carried across the courtyard. Castledoor has an upbeat lullabies to energize quality. The twinkles from two sweethearts playing keyboards face to face are offset by guitar riffs and drums that are a natural Red Bull to anybody's ears. And the lead singer, Nate Cole, just seems crazy. He bounced around on stage wearing a sheepskin Mounty hat and matching clothing for a Canada outing. What a character. Definitely a band worth watching a few more times.

Then, around 10:15 the show was done. The large crowd started to clear out into the streets or into the parking structure. It was surprising to see such a large turnout for an Indie event. Not sure if there was something more to this gathering, but they wouldn't be able to pack this crowd into a place like Spaceland.

This all ages event was a nice departure from the club and bar scene. It was an eventful night at the museum. There, my report is done. Too bad there won't be any extra credit given out for this.

Monsters are Waiting @ The Roxy Theatre

2007-06-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

The Roxy Theatre
9009 Sunset Blvd.
Hollywood, CA 90069
Recorded Info: (310) 276-2222

Date: 6/28/07
Day: Thursday

It's another club in the heart of club row on Sunset Boulevard. Next to the Rainbow, a few doors from The Key Club, The Whiskey a Go Go, The Viper Room across the street, and a bunch of others hot spots wedged between. One by one they will eventually be picked off and visited for review, but tonight the target was The Roxy Theatre.

Skipping all the history, hoopla, and name droppings that performed here, this place is not too shabby.

From the $4 parking lot next to The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, it was a short stroll up Sunset Boulevard. This cheap lot is the usual spot when frequenting Sunset for any of these weekday events after 6pm. Each parking stall has a number that identifies the spot. There's a main machine to pay for parking, cash only, exact change. The flat rate is good until 2:30 in the morning. If you get lucky, there will be tickets left behind from kind people that left early. If you take the ticket and park in their spot you're all good for the night—Free! If not, there's also $5 parking directly across the street from The Roxy, Sunday through Thursday. Other parking locations vary and street parking is all meters in effect all night.

The exterior of The Roxy Theatre resembles that of a classic theatre with its streams of blue and red neon lights flowing down two stories over the box office like a waterfall. The neon red animated "R" rocks high above the palm tree planted in front. Above the entrance, two lusty red "ROXY" signs glow in a polished metal case within the wavy blue trimmed triangular overhang, each facing a direction of traffic. Four window showcases line the front wall, advertising upcoming events in a soft blue hue. Above that is the marquee with tonight's event: Monsters are Waiting, Mellowdrone, David Lovering, Gliss, and Meho Plaza all getting their name in lights. Streetlights and numerous lights in the overhang keep the sidewalk well lit. The stucco walls are flat black, labeling it as a nightclub and not the theatre it once was.

After a quick smoke on the sidewalk, the only place to smoke, and breathing in all the neon wonder, the first stop was the box office window. The lady asks who you're here to see and Monsters Are Waiting gets another slash under their name. $13 was the price of tonight's ticket. The box office is open M-F, 10:30am--5:30pm to get tickets early if you think the tickets are going to sell out and you don't want to pay TicketBastard fees. Through TicketMaster, it would have been over $22 with all the additional costs. This was an all ages event, but for under 21, the theatre charges an additional $3 drink and meal ticket. Not sure what that is about, but something to be aware of.

So, as mentioned, it was thirteen dollars. To one side of the box office was a polished steel door with "On The Rox" sign above it, the second level club. To the other side was the entrance into The Roxy Theatre, which was the door pick of the night. One guy scanned the ticket until it beeped and the other guy stamped stars on the back of hands for over 21. How cute.

Through the glass doors and into the lobby area. A real small area where there is one cushioned bench seat that is split into two loveseats by an arm divider. Just to give an idea how small this area is: the seat runs the length of the wall. Two black and white performance portraits hang opposite for viewing, flaunting past performers like Ozzy Osbourne. Not much room for anything else, except an ATM machine and the door to the women's restroom. The lobby leads to two entryways. One is up a ramp to the right with a neon sign above it labeled "Bar". The other way is to keep heading straight into the venue.

Passing through the cramped lobby and heading straight, the place opens up into the general admission floor area. Keeping forward down the path to the back is the men's restroom. To the left is the soundboard and lounge booths, to the right are merchandise and drink windows, further right around the corner is the bar that connects to the other entranceway. And in the opposite far corner is the stage. The place is one large square black box separated into different locations.

The booths and tables to the left are on a slightly higher level than the rest of the pit area. Nothing was available; either all the chairs were filled at the tables or a "reserved" placard kept the booths cleared. Supposedly for a lot more money, these reserved booths can be purchased. There are six booths total, seating about six to eight each. Three are against the back wall on the highest level under the additional dozen or so black and white portraits of more great past performers, then another three booths on the next lower level. On lowest level below is table seating. Six tables with six chairs each line perpendicular to the divider running the length of the seating area. Three levels of seating, each only a step up from the next, starting a step up from ground floor. The divider also serves as a counter for the seated. Do not attempt to lean or rest your drink on this counter if you are standing on the floor. You'll be on the pathway that runs from the entrance to the rear that security keeps clear at all times.

(Full Bar)

And that's all the seating there is. Everything else is standing room only, which definitely gets tiring after a while. There is the bar, but with no bar stools. One bartender served up drinks at a slow pace. It is a full bar and a lengthy one at that. A nice opal counter to lean and wait for a drink. The bar mirror resembles the wavy shape of the theatre front, a little interesting, but not enough as it reflects the row of waiting patrons and the bottles of liquor lined beneath. A Corona was $7, poured into a clear plastic Budweiser Select cup with a lime wedge. It's like Coke being served in a Dr. Pepper cup, confusing the mind and taste buds somehow. The bar area is a step-up from the ground level, which is ramp accessible through the bar entranceway in the lobby area. The disabled have the right to get their drink, too.

(Draft Bar and Merchandise windows)

There is also what they call a "Draft Bar". It's literally a window in the wall where a lady tends a smaller bar. "Eat/Drink" in blue neon above. There was never a wait as the bartender mainly just leaned on the ledge and watched the show on stage a few feet away. Not sure why more people didn't try her first. There are supposedly some "eats" here as well, but something about music clubs never gets a food appetite going. The mind just seems to know it wants a drink. The draft beers on tap were Bud Light, Budweiser Select, Sierra Nevada, and Sam Adams--something like that. $6 for regular and $11 for a thirty-two ounce beer bomb. Opted for a tequila and 7-Up instead. She rambles off a selection of tequila and Patron sounded best. That best costs $13! It was stiff and smooth as Patron can be. Served on the rocks with a lime wedged on the edge of a blue plastic tumbler.

The next windows over are where the bands' merchandise is sold. "Merchandise" in blue neon above with arrows pointing down to the lady selling the goods. Two windows are designated to sell, but only one window and girl was available to serve. A low L-counter juts out from the wall, which only leaves one side of the area open for fans wedging in and out from the merchandise counter. Sounds confusing for it makes no sense.

Then there is the stage! A large quarter circle that fills a whole corner of the club, set about three feet above pit level. About twenty-five fans lined the front edge of the stage from corner-to-corner, which also served as their seating area between sets. A very wide viewing area. Definitely a theatre size stage. The drummer seems so distant in the rear as the rest of the band is spread out in his or her own sections of the stage. A projection screen behind the drummer gives the open space a bit of movement with some type of colorful animation flickering or swirling between the stagnant black walls. A bunch of colored spotlights in front and on stage attempt to fill the bands with a bit of mood color. Each song changing the light variation to the mood: blues, reds, greens, oranges and yellows. Always a steady color combination, never a strobe or sequence flashes. Two massive speakers turned towards the pit hang at each end of the stage. The music never got too loud or irritating, but it was not very crisp as well. The vocals seemed to get muffled under the acoustics at times. It would have been nice to have everything just a bit louder, or maybe somebody is going deaf. It wasn't loud enough for the music to creep into the skin, which is a personal favorite. Each band also had their own sound monitoring issues and signals with the soundman. It could have been better, especially for the price and the fact that this is not a dive bar.

Got there a little after nine. Missed the opening band Meho Plaza, which started a half hour after the doors opened at 8pm. At 9:15 the purple velvet curtains raised to reveal the band Gliss. A smoke machine started up, but could only fill a portion of the stage for one singer--a reminder of the big stage. Wavy swirls of purple filled the screen. The band was awesome to watch, especially the cute drummer/bassist, Victoria Cecilia. And that was the thing, all three members would switch instruments for different songs, then back again. The vocals of Martin Klingman have an eerie whisper sound that seems to strain with gripping emotion. Like he was crying his heart out with a dry throat, which is good thing. Nothing Pop about them. Kind of like Smashing Pumpkins-esque. Not sure if they sung the song Rhinoceros, which they recently covered. Performed about a half-hour.

(Gliss)

As the curtains came down the wait for the next band started. This was when it became obvious that there seemed a lack of ventilation or air-conditioning. Warmth started to cause sweat to bead on the forehead from just standing around. It never got hot or dripping sweat, just a little lukewarm uncomfortable. The disco ball that spun between performances moved more than the crowd as typical KROQ type music played over the speakers. The wait only lasted about 15 minutes.

(Mellodrone, acoustic)

Mellowdrone started at 10pm. This was an acoustic set. No drums, just two guys playing guitars. They sat together at one side of the stage, causing most of the crowd to bunch in a corner. Nothing that unique. A little more mellow and low key. Sounds like Beck without the electro funk. More of a chill set. Most people were waiting to hear their most popular acoustic song "Bone Marrow". Was preparing to record the one song on video, but while attempting to test the video settings on the camera, security gave a tap on the shoulder and mentioned there was no recording allowed. So that was a nix. But more of a bummer that they didn't sing the song as well. The two strummed for a half-hour until the curtain came down on them.

Now it was time to take a stop in the men's restroom. Followed the path that security keeps clear at all times, which leads to the backstage doorway next to the stage and the men's toilets in the rear. Passed under the "Men's" neon sign, down a short corridor that ladies shouldn't be seen in, and headed straight into the wide-open restroom. Two clean sinks and soap under a large mirror with all the etchings. A paper towel dispenser. The bad part is the two stalls. One had a toilet with toilet paper and seat wrap, but the lock was busted. The other stall was a little bigger but no door with two wall stalls cramped together. Very awkward. As if they converted it from a handicap stall. The wall stalls were so close together that one guy would be rubbing shoulders with the other. Luckily most guys noticed this and would leave one stall open for a bit of a comfort zone. Others wedged themselves in the stalls together, getting friendly. After being slightly traumatized by the unusual sight, it was time to get a stiffer drink.

Got the Patron and 7-Up before the 10:40 start of Scientific Phenomenalist David Lovering (of the Pixies) comedy magic act. Sorry, no photos were taken, though the stage lights were up bright. Even the house lights went on for a bit as he fittingly beat his drum, shooting smoke rings above the heads of the crowd. A hand held meteor, or so he said, was the focus point for all his magic. The meteor being the source and reasoning for all the illogical sights he performed. Amusing and funny. A nice break from the music. He performed no songs as he stood up there in a white lab coat and protective glasses, looking like a mad scientist. Told the crowd that Pixies were taking the year off from performing, which might be of interest to any fans. It was a short 20-minute show, but was long enough to break from taking photos and to finish the drink.

Everything was moving along like clockwork. There was a set time schedule on the box office window and things went smooth according to plan. Right on the money at 11:15, the curtains rose one last time to the vacant stage. A thread of pink and blue lights wrapped around the empty drums and the now purple screen glowed: Monsters are Waiting. This is their usual opening. Then the band appeared and the packed house cheered. This would be the sixth time watching them! Never gets boring, either. Maybe it's the intriguing movements of the lead singer Annalee, or the unique sound as she jabs her tiny keyboard, or her soothing voice that spews over high pitched instruments. Whatever it is, it is definitely original and not typical rock. It's a great live performance that their album only hints at. Their set ran over an hour. There was even an encore where the band left for a bit then returned with two more songs, one being acoustic, which was something new. Always something new, even after watching them all these times.

(Annalee, Monsters are Waiting)

(Monsters are Waiting)

Unfortunately the night ended. By 12:20, the show was done and the crowd started to file out onto Sunset Boulevard. Other clubs were still happening, but ending the night with Monsters are Waiting was enough to satisfy the night complete.

Battle of the Bands @ B.B. King's

2007-06-11T23:44:00.000-07:00

B. B. King's Blues Club
Universal City Walk
1000 Universal Center Drive, Suite 222
Universal City, CA 91608
Day: Monday
Date: June 11, 2007

A&R Select presents Battle of the Bands on Monday nights, that is, until a winner is selected. It was down to the semi-finals with eight bands playing tonight. Not sure how many semi-final rounds there are, but the only information gathered is that this battle started with eighty bands. This A&R Select company that charges membership fees does not seem to be promoting this event very well. Not much information or publicity is available. The MySpace pages for the bands competing have little to mention about this event. Something seems kind of strange. There seems to be no list of the eighty dwindling bands or who was playing this evening. Maybe the bands aren't proud to be paying membership fees, which no band or artist should ever do in order to get recognized or represented. In any event, this is a review for the B.B. King venue and will not be about the shady promoters that were putting on the show.

It all started with buying tickets to see a co-worker's boyfriend playing in a band, competing for the win. A band called "V.O.Z." There were no freebies here. But didn't mind supporting their cause. So, a week before, purchased $11 tickets through the voztheband.com website and paid by PayPal. In a few days a hand-addressed envelope came in the mail. Inside were tickets printed on heavy red cardstock. It was obvious that the tickets were cut from printed sheets. With those in hand, the imagination of seeing the band scissoring out the tickets and mailing them to the fans came to mind. Anyway, each paper ticket was worth $10, with the extra dollar going to "shipping and handing" and other costs (like those PayPal fee sucking bastards). The tickets were also considered a ballot vote for the band, having only their name front and center. But if it wasn't for that honest co-worker promoting this event, there would be no way of knowing about this 'contest'. Even the B.B. King website calendar did not recognize any of these Monday events occurring. But with a ticket in hand, there was faith that it was happening.

And it did happen.

The location was B.B. King's Blues Club at Universal CityWalk. It sounds like another overpriced tourist trap in the perfect location: a big name place, an over exploited commercial spot, and an event being done by supposed A&R people. This didn't sound indie at all, but after the visit, that perception changed.

After paying $10 to park in the Jurassic Park structure, and a short walk to the middle of CityWalk, it was then a steady glide up a long escalator to the venue on the second floor. The ticket stated the doors were at 6pm. Didn't get there until around 8:30, knowing V.O.Z was scheduled for 9. Day was turning night as neon lights began to glow and flash all along the walk. B.B. King's was no exception with its massive gold-crowned blue guitar, the red "B-B" blinking down the center, and "King's Blues Club" humming across the bottom.

Below the sign in front of the club, there is a little open area with a few black metal chairs and circle tables overlooking the passing tourists below. This is also the area where the smokers hang. Anywhere outside is a smoking area, but this spot seems to be designated by the fans at B.B. King's. Had a quick smoke and took a few pictures.

(ticket booth & entrance)

Got in line at the ticket window next to the entrance. The little booth built into the wall made of nicely lacquered wood paneling and molding. A lady was sitting behind the small opening in the window. She took the ticket or the $10 entrance fee, checked IDs, and then strapped on a green neon wristband for over 21. If a wristband was needed, it was obvious that the younger crowd was going to be showing as well.

Black shirts labeled "Security" stood guard at the entrance. The double doors of heavy oak stood between two washed-out pillars rising up to the grand ornamental pediment overhead. Architecture of the Colonial style. Security kindly opened a door and welcomed guests.

Inside was a different experience compared to the typical stroll along CityWalk. The whole grand entrance doorway now seemed adequate for a place like this. The neck stretched back to look up at the three levels of seating and viewing pleasure. Balconies of decorative molding and lacquered lumber facing one large open mouth stage. The first thought was a theater or an old Southern mansion. This club is big, but at the same time small and intimate for a concert. A tall place, but half as wide.

First level is the largest.

The entrance leads into the front, along the same side as the stage. A three story decorative archway, with the same decorative molding as on the face of the balconies, trims the gapping mouth of the stage. Black sidewalls angle inward towards a square backdrop of dark curtains. Faint stencil lighting was projected onto these sidewalls, nothing fantastic. The stage is set above four feet and stretches across the long base of the arch. A lot of real estate for strutting performers and front row viewers. A half size movie screen hangs against the curtains, showing the show below larger than life. Two massive speakers are mounted stereo. The music is not deafening loud or bass pounding. Just loud and a bit muddled, not as crisp as other venues. But no obvious sound level fixes, pops, or distortions during any of the sets. About average, nothing more, nothing less. Stage lighting are rows of multicolored spotlights mounted beneath the balcony and above the screen. With multiple rows of multicolored lights shining constant in the same direction, the lighting was nearly white. A poor light show.

On the sidewall next to the entrance is the bar stretching across to the B.B. King's cherry Gibson Lucille display at the end. Two bartenders kept the lines short and service fast. Got a Heineken in a bottle for $6. The lady offered it in a bottle or glass. Not sure the difference, maybe one's classier than the other? A flat screen television mounted on the wall showed the same as the screen on stage. Each level had a bar and television in the same location, but only this bar was open tonight.

The viewing area on this first level consists of booths, tables, and an open floor. Five lounge booths line the back wall facing the stage, seating eight to ten each under the low ceiling of the balcony. B.B. King portrait renditions hang on the wall behind the booths, next to the mini Colonial column frames with tonight's advertisement poster blocking whatever artwork is behind it. Red glowing ambience provided by lights above filled this area.

(a shot from the booth in the back)

Below center stage is a wooden dance floor, about a third wide as the length of the stage. Roughly a twenty feet square location in the middle for standing room only. The rest of the level is filled with square wood tables and chairs. A lot of table seating, four rows deep. Each table seats two, but many are connected with others to accompany larger groups. Any size seating is possible. A few circle bar tables line the outer edges with their high barstools. Every table is accompanied with a flickering candle enclosed in a lantern shaped glass. This seating area is open, visible from the balconies above.

In the back, between the bar and seating area, is an ATM, an elevator, and a stairway. Another stairway is in the far corner next to the opposite entrance where the bands load their gear. Both stairways lead to—

The Second Level.

(the second level)

Up a flight of steps the blue walls and narrow area of the second level come into view. Another duplicate bar and flat screen in the same location as on the first level, but only the television active.

At the balcony edge, the sound operator takes up a small area in the center. On both sides, a total of about eight rows of three square tables butted end-to-end line perpendicular to the railing. Only the first chairs next to the railing has a good view of the performance below. The rest can only watch on the big screen. A line of barstool tables and chairs line the back wall. They, too, only have viewing of the big screen. There is a walking path between the regular tables and barstool tables, but that's about it. A table for six, a walking path, and a circle barstool table makes up the width of this second floor. That's it. Nice little area. Oh, the restrooms are on this level. One gender at each end. The tile men's restroom is nice. Two toilet stalls good enough for dropping a number two. Also, four wall stalls, a few sinks, a mirror, soap, and paper towels. Clean.

The Third Level.

(view from the third level barstool counter)

Continuing up the stairs, the red walls of the third level appear. Another duplicate bar and flat screen in the same location as the other two levels. Only the television active. Next to the bar are two long couches facing each other. These are the only couches in the place next to the only window in the place, extending floor to ceiling, overloooking an obstructed portion of CityWalk. Nothing to see. The window is in the wrong area for a nice scenic view.

A row of tall bar chairs face the stage, positioned along a spill guard counter running the length of the balcony railing. Every seat a good view of the action below. Tables line the back wall with no view of anything and a muddled sound of the music.

Down on the Stage -

(V.O.Z.!)

V.O.Z. started around 9:30 with a short five-song set. They rocked the place, getting the crowd yelling and jumping. Cameras flashed. High fives across the front row. And all that wild stuff to get the judges excited. After the show, they came down to thank the fans with hugs and hand shakes. Free stickers and three song EPs were passed out in abundance. It was one happy bunch. Then the crowd thinned and calmed as the next band started to play.

At 1am the finalist were announced.
V.O.Z. made it!
One last round until the winner is crowed.
Good luck to them!

LEFTOVER NOTES:

Did not try the food.

Taking pictures is allowed.

The $10 parking ticket is also a voucher than can be used towards a movie ticket.

The place had more of a B.B. King homage decor, rather than a Blues museum. It didn't feel like the South, but rather a place with too much decorative molding stuck to the surfaces. Gave the essance of fake rather than unique. But at least one more return visit will be a must to support V.O.Z., which will be June 25th at 9:30pm. (Hint! Hint!)

UPDATE:
Revisit: B.B. King's Blues Club
Event: Battle of the Bands Finals
06/25/07

IDASIS won A&R Select Battle of the Bands. They did perform last and played as though they were the headliner of the event. Strangely, their set was at least twice as long as the other competitors. It was kind of obvious there was something fishy going on when the A&R Select host was in the crowd, talking it up with the fans as though he had brought them or were responsible for them as if making certain they would not get out of hand. Then the host got on stage and started acting the clown, pointing his fingers to the crowd, then mimicking all the band members side by side. He also allowed them to do an encore song. He did none of this with the other nine bands. Things that make you go hmmm...

Ending on a good note: Had a brief conversation with Jose Freitas, the lead singer of the rockin' band After. He had nothing but praise for the people of B.B. King's Blues Club. Said something to the effect of: Indie bands are welcome and the staff makes them feel welcome. No connection or relation required. They give the band respect, no matter how big or small. Sounds like B.B. King's is just looking to book good music and appreciate the artists that struggle to create it. Thanks.